


offbeat's destiel drabble collection (2021 edition)

by one_more_offbeat_anthem



Series: offbeat's destiel drabbles :) [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: but I really like fluff and h/c so expect a fair bit of that, this is a drabble collection so it'll run the gamut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-03
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-13 15:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 34
Words: 23,597
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28530678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/one_more_offbeat_anthem/pseuds/one_more_offbeat_anthem
Summary: a collection of destiel drabbles, mostly originally posted on my Tumblr :)
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: offbeat's destiel drabbles :) [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2089983
Comments: 20
Kudos: 96





	1. dean needs a beer, cas needs a hug, sam is eating salad

Dean’s had better days. 

It was supposed to be a milk run, a standard salt-n-burn that he could have handled by himself (but Sam insisted that Cas needed to come along, to get practice). Instead, they got a nasty ghoul that decided to use Cas as a piñata, and Cas has now locked himself in the motel bathroom with a cut across his face and another down his arm that he won’t let Dean stitch up, because whenever he gets a reminder that his grace is gone, he shuts down.

Dean doesn’t know how to get through to Cas–he’s never been able to find the right words to tell Cas how goddamn important he is, so he usually fucks it up, and he could really use a beer to calm the jittery _I-fucked-up_ energy that’s blooming in his chest. 

Sam is probably having a great time at the bunker, eating a fucking salad and watching lord-knows-what, maybe video-chatting with Eileen, and Dean’s _here,_ trying to balance giving Cas space and busting down the bathroom door.

He pounds on it for the third time in fifteen minutes, calling, “Cas, you alright in there?”

A long pause, and then, “Yeah.”

“That’s a goddamn lie, Cas. Open the door.”

Another pause.

Alright, enough of this shit.

Dean shoulders the door open to find Cas sitting on the lid of the toilet seat, his chin in his hands, staring at a random spot on the floor. He doesn’t respond to Dean’s presence at all, so Dean sits down on the edge of the tub, with the first aid kit in his hand. 

“Cas, dude, you gotta talk to me.”

“I’m fine.” “Oh yeah, I forgot, it’s perfectly normal to sulk in the bathroom.”

“I’m not sulking!” Cas snaps.

“Yeah, man, you are.” Dean pops open the lid of the first aid kid, taking out the dental floss and needle that they use for stitches on hunts.

“I don’t need stitches,” Cas mumbles.

“Yeah, you do,” Dean says, “Unless you want those cuts to never heal.”

“I _used_ to be able to heal them myself!”

“Yeah.” Dean sets the floss and needle down, “You did. But you can’t anymore, and you know that’s okay, right?”

Cas is still staring at him like the world’s ending, and Dean hates it, hates how watery Cas’ eyes are, so he stands up, feeling all kinds of wrong-footed, and pulls Cas into his arms. It’s a weird hug–Cas is still sitting, so his head presses into a spot between Dean’s stomach and chest, but then slowly, tentatively, Cas hugs him back.

Dean’s gonna try and find the right words this time.

“Cas, human or angel, cursed or not, whatever form you come in…you know that we–I still need you, right?” No, that’s not it–Dean has said that he _needed_ Cas before. “And not just to…help us or be useful or anything. I need you because you’re my best friend.” Still wrong–or, not false, but not true enough.

Dean’s not really sure what makes him finally get past the knot in his throat and say it, maybe it’s the way Cas has lifted his head and is looking at him like he hung the goddamn moon (when, in reality, Dean’s usually much better at ripping shit like that away), but he takes Cas’ face in his hands, cradling Cas’ cheeks with his palms, and says, softly, so that his voice doesn’t break in the middle, “I need you because I love you.”

Cas stares up at him in wonder, and then smiles. It’s a slow, small, thing, but it cracks Dean’s chest open, and it’s good, so good.

“You gotta let me stitch up those cuts now?” Dean asks.

“Yeah.”

The stitches are slow and careful–Cas is no stranger to pain, but Dean doesn’t want to make this hurt more than it has to. When he’s done stitching Cas up, Dean leans in, kisses the cut on his cheek, and then Cas turns his face, angles his jaw so that their lips slide together, and suddenly everything doesn’t seem so terrible anymore. 


	2. god in man made manifest

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> today, january 6, is, if you follow the christian calendar, epiphany: the day remembering the coming of the wise men, the end of the twelve days of christmas, and jesus’ first manifestation to the gentiles. the word comes from the koine greek “epipháneia,” meaning “manifestation” or “appearance.”
> 
> so, naturally, i wrote a fic. title is from the epiphany hymn “songs of thankfulness and praise.”

This is a weird feeling. 

Christmas itself was weird enough, and new year’s--actually stopping and taking the time to celebrate, to have a tree (and not break off limbs to stab things with) and binge watch Christmas movies and drink way too much spiked cider and eggnog and--

Yeah. 

It’s been different.

But this, Dean thinks, is even more strange--taking down and packing up the Christmas decorations to use next year, acting like there’s a guarantee of a next year. It’s never something he's been promised, and now he’s not sure what to do with it. He loops a string of lights to tuck away in a box and turns up the Zeppelin music he has on (1975′s _Physical Graffiti_ is today’s choice) and wonders. 

Sam’s in Hastings, doing some late-transfer-student applying to the local community college, trying to get back on that degree. Apparently he needs some extra stuff to get on a degree track again--dropping out of Stanford in your senior year to hunt monsters isn’t...normal. Eileen went with him, mostly to go to the big grocery store there and restock after the holidays. Jack is doing some god stuff, whatever that means, and Cas is...

Standing in the doorway, watching him.

“How long have you been there?” Dean asks, moving on to the box for ornaments (he still can’t believe there’s a freakin’ special kind of box to tuck them into, and that they _own_ one of those special boxes now). 

“Not too long.” Cas smiles, one of his little smiles he reserves for Dean. He looks comfortable, in jeans and socks and a sweatshirt with a penguin on it that Eileen got him for Christmas. He’s holding a mug of something in each hand.

Cas pads across the room and turns the music down before setting the mugs on the table. “I brought hot chocolate. I thought you could take a break.”

Dean considers pushing it, continuing to take everything down as fast as he can, but he relents and sits down across from Cas, who instantly tangles his feet up with Dean’s under the table. 

Cas doesn’t ask what’s on Dean’s mind--he just waits, sipping his hot chocolate with its proverbial mountain of marshmallows, until Dean’s ready to talk. 

“Do you ever worry...” Dean feels his face redden. “That all of this will be taken from us?”

Cas shakes his head, sets down his mug to take Dean’s hand. “It’s been taken before.”

“But it’s never been...” Dean looks around, at the half naked Christmas tree, at the boxes on the floor, at the former angel in front of him who made him hot chocolate and learned how to build a snowman last week.

“This good?” Cas interjects.

Dean nods.

“That,” Cas smiles again, “Is why I choose to enjoy it.” He looks up and down the tree. “How about I help you take this stuff down? You don’t have to do it alone.”

Cas is right.

He doesn’t have to do this alone. None of them do, for anything, not anymore. 


	3. college application

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> got emotional about dean and his GED and john winchester being a shit father :) so here ya go :)

**Applicant Name:** Dean Michael Winchester   
**Date of Birth:** 1-24-1979   
**Address:** 812 Mulholland Drive, Lawrence, KS 66044   
**Degree Program:** Civil Engineering

_**Personal Statement Instructions: In 650 words or less, describe your motivations for gaining a higher education.** _

I’m writing an essay. I haven’t done this since tenth grade English class, and I never even got to turn it in, because my old man yanked my little brother and I out of school and onto the next town before I could.

That sentence alone probably explains why I have a G.E.D., not a high school diploma, and why I’m applying to college right before my forty-second birthday. To be honest, I think my not-so-little-now brother was going to kick me in the ass if I didn’t stop moaning about kinda wanting to do this. 

The fact of the matter is, my life ain’t been easy. My mom died when I was a kid, I spent most of my childhood on the road with my dad, who...well, I won’t go into specifics, but he sucked at being a father, and as an adult, I did the same. Things only settled down for me a couple of months ago, and I got bullied into moving to Lawrence (which is where I’m originally from) and applying to this.

I’ve spent a lot of my life thinking that I wasn’t worth anything, and then I got a kick in the ass from the universe. My best friend almost died, and when we thought he wasn’t gonna make it, he said some stuff that really opened my eyes, about how I was actually a good person, that I taught him how to care about people. He’s always known me better than anyone, since the beginning, and what he said really hit at the core of all of the shit I’ve stored up over the years. And then it seemed like whatever I was running from...wasn’t actually anything I needed to run from anymore.

I said I wasn’t gonna talk about my dad, that I wasn’t gonna go into specifics, but that was a lie. When I was growing up, everything was put on me--he would leave my brother and I alone in motel rooms, or at his best friend’s house, or...anywhere, really. Crappy apartments. Behind seedy bars. In the car. I had to steal stuff, and do other things that I _definitely_ don’t wanna talk about, to make sure my brother got fed, got the childhood I was never gonna get.

Once, when I was a teenager, I got caught shoplifting groceries, and my dad dumped me in a boy’s home. He always acted like this stuff was my fault. He died when I was in my late twenties, in a car accident we were in together. I survived, but he didn’t, and his last directive was to _take care of your brother._

Well, like I said, that brother’s not so little anymore. He’s settled down, has a house and a girlfriend and a job, and he told me he doesn’t need me to protect him anymore, not in the same way, and that I deserved a life, too.

I think I might be starting to believe him, my brother, and my best friend. So I want to go back to school, learn some stuff, get to be normal for once, whatever that means for me. I don’t know what I’m gonna do with this degree, but I wanna give myself the chance to do something. 

(Okay, I’m writing this later, but my best friend edited for me, and he said I would “be remiss not to mention that he’s also my husband.” Yes, with the air quotes and everything. So yeah. Another kick in the ass from the universe that day: don’t finally get the courage to tell your best friend you’re in love with him while he’s dying.)

(Also, marrying your best friend is a great idea.)

_**Thank you for applying to the University of Kansas!** _


	4. sam pov, college au

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> or, the one where sam has to fight through the UST

It’s no surprise to Sam that his older brother still hasn’t told Cas how he feels. Sam’s known Dean from the literal moment he was born, and Dean is nothing if not evasive and careful with his feelings, even with his best friend. It’s only gotten worse since Sam moved in with the two of them this fall.

Ostensibly, it was for all of them to save money--Sam wouldn’t have to pay for a crappy freshman dorm room, and they could split the rent three ways instead of two. But what is revealed to Sam is Dean’s epic jealously whenever Cas hangs out with certain people...and how much Sam _hates_ it.

One night, while Dean is making dinner and Sam is doing homework at the bar in their kitchen, it all comes to a head.

“Is Cas joining us?” Sam asks, flipping to the next page in _The Scarlet Letter._

Dean slams a pot down on the stove. “No.”

“Why no?” Sam glances up at his brother. “I didn’t think he had anything going on Thursday nights.”

“He _doesn’t._ He and Balth are meeting up to study. Studying, my ass.” Dean turns the burner on to boil the water with equal vigor. “Balth has had his eye on Cas since the biology lab the three of us were in sophomore year.”

Sam sighs inwardly and keeps reading his book. Dean’s never going to admit to being in love with Cas unless he’s pushed, is he?

Sam is binge-watching _Parks and Rec_ on his bed later when he hears their apartment’s front door open and shut--presumably, it’s Cas returning. Cas says something Sam can’t hear, but Dean’s angry response is definitely audible.

“I’m so glad you skipped spaghetti for date night with _Balth_ ,” Dean says sarcastically (sarcasm has _never_ been a good look on him, Sam would know).

“Who said anything about date night?” Oh, Sam can hear Cas’ voice now. That’s never a good sign--Cas reserves his anger for extreme circumstances, unlike Dean, who pops off at just about anything.

“I’ve seen the way Balth looks at you. You two sure as hell weren’t studying for that long.”

“And why would you care?” Cas challenges. Sam would bet his entire Millennium Falcon lego set that Cas has crossed his arms and leaned back on the heels of his feet, a strong stance against Dean, who most likely has his fists balled up at his sides. Sam’s been in enough arguments with his brother over the years to know. 

“I--I was just--” Dean sputters but Cas cuts him off.

“That’s right, you _don’t_ care. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have things to do.” Sam hears loud footsteps, and then Cas coming into his room next to Sam’s and slamming the door. Then he hears the TV turn on in the living room--classic Dean, watching a western instead of talking it out.

Well, if Dean won’t tell Cas what’s up, _Sam_ will.

Sam slides out of bed, shutting his laptop (he hates to abandon Ben and Leslie’s wedding, even if he’s seen the episode six times, but he needs to talk to Cas), before heading out of his room and knocking on Cas’ door.

“Can’t you tell when someone doesn’t want to talk to you?” Cas says angrily from inside, and Sam knocks again. He hears footsteps, and then Cas is pulling open the door. “I told you to--oh, it’s you.”

“I couldn’t help but hear you and my brother yelling at each other,” Sam says, “Can I come in?” He’s already shouldering past Cas, though--Cas may be Dean’s best friend, but Sam has known Cas since he was a kid, and they have an understanding.

“Dean didn’t put you up to this, did he?” Cas asks as Sam commanders his desk chair.

“Nope.” Sam spins around the chair for a minute before stopping to look at Cas. “You know why Dean gets so upset, right?”

“Because he’s terrible?” Cas replies, raising an eyebrow.

Sam rolls his eyes. “ _No._ Because he’s _jealous,_ Cas. Can I tell you a secret?”

“Hm?”

Sam lowers his voice--if Dean hears Sam, Sam can kiss finishing any of his classes goodbye, because he’ll be _dead._ “He’s been in love with you for _years_ ,” Sam says. 

Cas’ mouth drops open. “No.”

“Yes. Since...” Sam thinks back. “Since your junior year of high school, when you took Meg Masters to prom. The two of you were originally planning on going solo but buying the tickets together to save money, and then she asked you, and you said yes. Dean sort of lost it.”

Cas frowns. “He never said anything to me about it.”

“Yeah, because Dean’s an idiot. Look,” Sam stood up, “He’s never gonna say anything himself, and you know that, because you know him just as well as I do. The only way to get him to talk about it is to confront him, and I’m tired of being stuck in the middle.”

“So you’re telling me this...”

“So that one of you will make a move.” Sam turns to leave Cas’ room. “Good luck.”

Sam heads back to his room and watches three more episodes of _Parks and Rec_ before going to sleep. He doesn’t hear voices from the living room, but he also doesn't hear either Dean or Cas’ door slam. 

The next morning, Sam pulls himself out of bed so that he can have breakfast before his nine am class--psychology--and notices that the TV in the living room is still on. _Then_ he notices that Cas is curled up on top of Dean on the couch, both of them fast asleep, with Dean’s arms wrapped around Cas.

Looks like the intervention worked. 


	5. office romance

Castiel Novak has been working at Roman Motors as an account for two years, and in that time, he’s learned a couple of things: he doesn’t really like being an accountant, suit jackets are pointless, the coffee in the break room is terrible after ten am, and he has a massive crush on Dean Winchester. 

Dean’s an engineer--he mainly works on engine design--but he also serves as the liaison between accounts and his own department, which means Castiel sees him at least once a week, sometimes twice, and they’ve gotten up a real rapport in that time.

It’s mainly because of Dean--he’s a tease, always wears plaid button-downs with the sleeves rolled up and boots instead of dress shoes, and likes to throw quips, jokes, little asides at Castiel. Last year, he referred to Castiel as his “devastatingly handsome friend” in conversation, and Castiel thought about it for a week.

(Actually, that’s a lie. He’s still thinking about it.)

The annual company founder’s ball is next week, and it’s all anyone will talk about, including Dean, who intercepted Castiel with a stack of paperwork in the break room this morning.

“You’re going, right?” Dean asks, running a hand through his short, tawny hair. It takes a lot of Castiel’s self-control to pry himself away from Dean’s gaze and focus on pouring his coffee.

Castiel shrugs. “Maybe.”

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says (that’s another one of his things, the nickname), “It’ll be fun, and didn’t you skip last year’s? I wanna see you in a suit.”

“I’m wearing a suit right now.” Castiel takes a sip of his coffee. Terrible, as per usual.

“I mean a suit-suit, not this baggy shit. _I,”_ Dean practically preens, “Look _great_ in a suit.”

“Are you going to bring a date?” Castiel asks. A lot of people like to--he’s heard some interesting stories about post-ball hook-ups. 

“Dunno yet,” Dean replies, “Haven’t asked ‘em.”

\----------------------------

For the rest of the week, founder’s ball talk only intensifies. Castiel, against his better judgement, buys himself a ticket, and then spends an evening roaming around Goodwill trying to find a vaguely interesting suit jacket.

In between, he has several more conversations with Dean that make him feel like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of someone’s spoon, and Dean tells him more about the mystery girl he’s planning on asking to the ball.

“Dark hair,” Dean tells him one morning, while standing at Castiel’s desk, waiting for Cas to sign something for him. “Messy. But it looks good. And the _eyes_ \--the bluest blue you’ve ever seen in your life.”

Cas swallows and hands him the paper. “Sounds nice.”

Dean grins at him and heads off.

The next day, he runs into Dean in the bathroom. Dean leans against the sink while Castiel washes his hand. “And they’re _really_ kind,” Dean says, “Quiet, but kind. Thoughtful.”

Castiel nods, dries his hand, and leaves.

The other facts come to him--Dean’s dream girl likes cats and has two, has never read a science fiction novel, loves nature documentaries, has two older brothers, and...

And isn’t Castiel.

The night of the ball, he finds himself standing in front of his bathroom mirror at his apartment, adjusting his jacket--navy blue with slightly shiny lapels, it had seemed nice at the store--and his best-fitting slacks. He attempts to flatten his dark hair in vain, and then gives up. Castiel makes sure his cats have enough water in their dishes and heads out.

When Castiel gets to the venue, he can already tell that he isn’t going to like this. He doesn’t go out much, he doesn’t drink to excess, and it’s loud and dark. 

He’s contemplating just turning around and leaving when he feels a hand on his shoulder and turns around. It’s Dean, and he looks...well, Castiel doesn’t always swear, but _damn._ Dean looks great.

“Cas! You actually came!” Dean looks weirdly thrilled to see Castiel. 

“Yeah,” Castiel says, “So did you.” It’s a dumb answer, but he feels awfully tongue-tied.

“Duh. Look, Cas, lemme buy you a drink. You look way too good to be drink-less.” And then Dean grabs Cas by his elbow and drags him to the open bar. 

They spend some indeterminate time standing against one of the wall and talking--Dean’s got straight whiskey, and Castiel has an old fashioned. 

“Aren’t you going to dance?” Dean asks, draining the last of his whiskey.

“It’s...not really my thing,” Castiel replies.

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather be?”

Castiel looks at the floor, drags a finger through the condensation on his glass. “I go on walks at night sometimes, stargaze, look at the city.”

“Then let’s go do that,” Dean says.

“Then let’s--” Castiel pulls his gaze back up meet Dean’s. “What?”

“Let’s go. You don’t wanna be here? Let’s do something else.” Dean snags a server and plucks Castiel’s glass out of his hand, putting both their drink glasses on the tray.

“What about the girl you were going to ask to the ball?” Castiel asks, tilting his head questioningly.

“The _girl?”_ For some reason, Dean starts laughing. He doubles over and eventually collects himself, wiping tears from the corners of his eyes. “Damn, Cas, I haven’t laughed that hard in years. Not a girl.”

“A guy?” Castiel can feel his eyebrows shoot up.

“Tell me, Cas,” Dean has him by the elbow again, is leading him back out of the venue, “What guy do you know that’s shy but nice, has dark hair and blue eyes, has two cats--and the cat’s names are Lily and Marigold?” 

“I--” Castiel stops short, right outside, still under the awning. “ _What?”_

“C’mon, Cas,” Dean says, moving his hand down hold Castiel’s, interlacing their fingers. “Let’s go on that walk.”


	6. roommates

Rooming with Castiel Milton for the second year in a row had been a no-brainer. Dean hadn’t met anyone he wanted to live with more, and he knew Cas’ schedule. Sure, Cas was what Dean’s fellow physics majors called an ““English weirdo,” but since they studied things like rocket science, Dean wasn’t sure he had room to call anyone else _weird_. Or, at least, it had been a no-brainer when they lived in a dorm. 

This year, they’d gotten an apartment, and Dean was no longer shielded from Cas in his entirety. Dean had already known that his friend was fairly attractive (messy, dark hair that always looked like he’d just had sex, brilliant blue eyes, a slim but surprisingly strong form), but now that he was seeing Cas’ bare chest every other day...well, Dean’s tiny crush from freshman year was growing. 

It all came to a head the week before fall semester finals. Dean was studying on the couch—he hated being confined to his desk—and Cas was taking a shower. 

“Dean?”

Dean turned around to answer Cas’ question and was greeted by— _holy shit_.

Cas was naked. Completely naked. No boxers or briefs or whatever, just an expanse of lightly tanned skin and...well, it was impressive. 

Dean could feel his face turning red as he yanked his gaze back up to Cas’ eyes. “What’s up?”

“I think our shower is broken.”

“Aw, hell.” Dean set his astronomy textbook aside and pulled himself off the couch to check it out. Sure enough, when he was in the bathroom, the knobs in the shower did nothing as he jiggled them. “It’s broken, all right,” Dean said, turning around to discover that a still-naked Cas was standing really fucking close to him. “I’ll tell our landlord,” Dean said, practically running out of the room. They didn’t talk about it until later, when Dean was half-studying and half-watching a _Dr. Sexy_ re-run in his room.

Cas stood in his doorway and said with no preamble, “I’m sorry if I made you uncomfortable earlier.”

“Uncomfortable? Nah,” Dean replied, trying to sound nonchalant.

“You seemed bothered,” Cas said. Well, Dean _had_ been bothered, but not in the way Cas was envisioning. 

Dean cleared his throat. “It’s fine, dude, don’t worry about it.”

Cas nodded once, as if he wasn’t totally convinced, and made to leave the room, but he still looked upset, and Dean didn’t like that, so he decided to try the clever method of not thinking and just saying whatever came to mind.

“I wasn’t...upset,” Dean tried, and Cas stared at him. “I mean,” he continued, “It wasn’t a bad view.”

Cas tilted his head. “Dean, are you flirting with me?”

“Would you like me to be flirting with you?”

Cas nodded slowly. 

Dean felt vaguely hysterical. “Okay, okay, that’s great.”

“How?”

“Cas, c’mere.”

Cas took the few steps to Dean’s bed, and before Dean could lose his courage, he yanked Cas down into a kiss by the collar of Cas’s hoodie. It was a messy kiss, a case of lips that didn’t quite hit the first time and had to slide together, but it was a good one, too. Dean was well on the way to losing his mind because _Cas was kissing him back_ when Cas pulled away. 

“I see why it’s great now,” he said softly, and Dean just laughed and pulled him back in. (The first shower after theirs got fixed was one they took together.)


	7. librarian!cas and kindergarten teacher!dean

“This is the best day of the year, huh?” Dean asks his colleague. The colleague in question--Castiel Novak, the librarian--nods.

“The kids do seem to love it.”

“Of course they love it.” Dean pushes Castiel’s shoulder lightly. “You’re the librarian.”

“And you, Mr. Winchester, are their teacher.”

“Dean, dude, you can call me Dean.” 

Castiel doesn’t respond except for a small, shy smile before he goes back to shelving books.

Dean’s got a pretty good gig, he thinks--he’s one of the kindergarten teachers at Pleasantview Elementary, and today is the day that his kiddos get to check out their first book from the school library. 

Castiel isn’t new but he acts like he is, shying away from Dean. The problem is, the librarian’s hot, and Dean was, up until Castiel started a few years ago, pretty sure no dude could look...well, sexy in a cardigan. He was wrong.

Dean doesn’t talk to Castiel again until his students have all checked their books out--a slew of Dr. Seuss, Amelia Bedelia, Boxcar Children, and even some Nancy Drew from some of his more advanced kids. 

Dean looks at his class. “Can everyone say, _Thank you, Mr. Novak?”_

The class parrots him, and then Dean mouths _Thank you_ to Castiel, who turns a polite shade of pink and then gives him a thumbs up.

And it’s cute, goddammit.

The rest of the day passes in the way it always does--Dean and his teacher’s aide, Charlie, herd a gaggle of five-and-six-year-olds around the school, from lunch to recess to nap time to reading circle and all the way to the bus lane, where Dean leaves Charlie to look after the stragglers whose buses are late.

He’s on the way back to his classroom to tidy up and prep for another day of learning (and mediating little-kid fights and tantrums) tomorrow when he hears someone call his name.

Dean turns around and there’s Castiel, standing awkwardly in the middle of the hallway in front of the library, holding a book.

“Hey, Castiel,” Dean says, approaching him, “What’s up?”

“I, uh...” Castiel holds out the book. “I ordered this. For you. You told me in the teacher’s lounge last month that you lost your copy and it’s your favorite book?”

Castiel is holding Jack Kerouac’s _On the Road_ in his hand--definitely not a book for kids.

“Castiel, I can’t--I can’t take this.” Dean furrows his brow. “You didn’t have to get this for me.”

Castiel shrugs a little. “I’m a librarian. I know how important books are to people.” 

“Well then,” Dean says, “I’ll take it, under one condition.”

Castiel tilts his head. “What’s that?”

“You let me take you out to dinner.”

Now Castiel fully smiles. “Alright.”

“Then it’s a date,” Dean says, taking the book being offered to him and walking down the hall to his classroom. _It’s a date._

(He gets a text that night, from a number saved as “Castiel Librarian.” _How’s Thursday night?_ Thursday night, is, of course, perfect.)


	8. vampire!cas

Dean’s just mixing one of the bar’s seasonal cocktails (something fruity, of course--he loves the touch of shaved orange peel as a garnish) when one of his regulars walks in and sits at his usual spot at the bar, right in front of Dean’s mixing station. 

Dean hands the cocktail to a waitress to deliver to the right table and then starts pouring a glass of gin--two ice cubes exactly. He hands it to the man in front of him with a, “Heya, Cas.”

The man--Cas--takes a sip of his gin and raises an eyebrow at Dean. “How many times do I have to tell you--”

“That it’s Castiel. At least a couple more.” Dean winks at Cas and then mixes another round of two-for-one margaritas for the three girls at the end of the bar--they’ll have to be cut off after these, though. 

He always tries to keep his flirting with Cas at a minimum. They’re polar opposites, as far as Dean can tell--Cas is a manager at the opera house, has the fanciest name known to man, wears a suit _everywhere,_ and is quiet and contemplative. 

Dean had only gotten to know Cas when the other man had started staying at the bar until closing at least two times a week about a year ago. Now, he always sat in the same spot, always ordered the same drink, and always left right as Dean was wiping down the bar. 

“See anything good on TV?” Dean asks as an attempt to strike up a conversation. 

“I don’t own a television,” Cas takes another sip, “And you know this.”

“Can’t blame a guy for trying.”

“I wouldn’t dream of blaming you for anything.” Cas’ eyes are oddly bright, a small, rare smile on his face.

Dean clears his throat. Cas is attractive and friendly (in his own way) and--off limits. “Well, how are things at the opera house?”

“Dull.” Cas lets out a sigh and...loosens his tie, which never happens, and runs a hand through his hair. “I haven’t felt this defeated since I was helping Puccini write _Madame Butterfly_.”

“DIdn’t know you wrote opera,” Dean said, wiping down a part of the bar that had just been abandoned.

“I haven’t in a long time.” Cas looks wistful, before saying, “Tell me about your brother.”

Dean stops wiping the bar and stares at Cas. “Tell you about Sam?”

“Yes,” Cas clears his throat, and Dean can't help but watch his Adam’s apple bob. “How is he?”

“Good.....finishing up college applications. Smart kid.” 

Cas has never asked about Dean’s life. What he knows, Dean has told him. Voluntarily.

Something is wrong. 

Cas makes an unusual amount of conversation, but leaves at closing time, like always, and Dean cleans up and grabs his jacket before walking out onto the cold street. On a whim, he googles...what was that guy’s name? Puccini?

_Giacomo Puccini, 1858-1924,_ Wikipedia helpfully supplies.

What the hell?

Just as Dean is turning to walk to the subway station and head back to his apartment, he sees a familiar figure in a black trench coat with dark, messy hair standing by a shop window next to the bar.

Dean walks up to him. Cas doesn’t turn his head.

“I searched that Puccini guy,” Dean says, “He died almost a hundred years ago, Cas. What...are you?”

No response.

Dean puts a hand on Cas’ shoulder, and finally the other man moves, and then smiles, and Dean sees them--sharp fangs curling out of Cas’ mouth.

Cas blinks once. “We can talk about it, if you’d like.”

[Dean learns a lot of things. One, Cas is a vampire. Two, Cas really does _hate_ opera, but “other people hate it more.” (He actually uses the air quotes.) Three, Cas has a pet cat named Houdini--and he has actually met Houdini. Four, Cas owns _sweatpants,_ and he looks damn good in them. Five, Cas is a pretty good kisser.

This last fact is Dean’s favorite.]


	9. one-year purgatory prayer anniversary

It’s been a long-ass year by anybody’s reckoning, but especially Dean Winchester’s. 

He rolls over, stretching, and notices that the other side of the bed is empty, which, _hey, where’s the angel,_ and cold, which means that, wherever Cas went, he’s been there for a while. 

Dean groans and swings himself out of bed, jamming his boots on and throwing his jacket over his pajamas, not bothering to really change, before heading out of the bunker, taking a couple of blankets with him.

Cas has done this enough that he’s finally figured out that if Cas is gone, he’s probably outside, freezing his ass off because he keeps forgetting that he’s _human_ now and can’t just thermoregulate with his mojo. 

The past few months have been weird--Cas’ confession and death, everyone getting snapped, defeating god, their kid becoming god, everyone coming back, rescuing Cas from the Empty, Cas avoiding him for-fucking-ever until Dean finally cornered him in the kitchen, and then scandalizing Sam when he walked in on them making out.

(Sam’s been threatening to move out, and Dean thinks it’s actually a pretty good idea. They could all use real homes, could treat the bunker like a hunting base, and Eileen deserves a nice house. She deserves a hell of a lot, really, since she’s putting up with Sam.)

But Cas does this sometimes--gets in his head. He’s told Dean that the Empty replays your worst memories, over and over, and he was stuck there until Dean yanked him out, with help from Sam, Rowena, and God-Jack. And sometimes the memories come back.

(Dean can’t blame him--he knows what it’s like to have your mind replay your worst hits. But he doesn’t want Cas to feel like he’s alone or a burden.)

Sure enough, Cas is outside, laying on the ground, staring at the stars. He doesn’t move when Dean lays down next to him, putting the blankets on top of them, and doesn’t speak for a long while. 

Finally, a gravelly, “I’m glad there aren’t many clouds tonight.”

Dean nods and finds Cas’ hand. He spent too long not holding Cas’ hand to not hold it now.

“What’s on your mind?” he asks.

Cas finally moves closer to Dean, tucking himself against Dean’s body, and takes a slow, deep breath before replying. “We went to purgatory a year ago.”

“Oh?” Dean remembers purgatory, both times--a year spent searching for Cas, and then realizing when he finally found him, and hugged Cas for the first time, what the frantic feeling without him had been all this time. And the second time--a fevered prayer, and hope, because if he couldn’t leave with Cas, that self-sacrificing sonofabitch, then he wasn’t leaving at all. 

“I...” Cas sighs. “When I said I heard your prayer--I heard what you didn’t say, too.”

_I love you._

“So then why’d you avoid me after we yanked you out of the Empty? If you already knew?” Dean raises both his eyebrows, even though Cas isn’t looking at his face. 

“I...didn’t want to assume.” 

“Assume as much as you want, Cas. You’re stuck with me.”

“I am?” Now Cas raises his head to look at Dean.

“What part of _I got a witch who’s also the queen of hell to rip my soul in half so I could shove it into you and get you out of the Empty_ did you miss?” Dean asks. 

“It’s not just your soul,” Cas says. “Your soul already had some of me in it.”

“What?”

“The handprint.”

“I did wonder...” Dean laughs. “Do you--did you, did real-you have hands?” “No, it was supposed to be symbolic.”

For some reason that just makes Dean laugh harder, trying to imagine some vast creature-- _My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler Building_ \--figuring out how to put a handprint on a little human. Like freakin’ celestial arts-and-crafts.

“What’s so funny?” Cas asks.

“Nothin,” Dean wheezes, and then pulls his angel down for a kiss. “I love you.”

He’s never gonna get tired of getting to say it, for real, out loud. This time and forever. 


	10. for love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> happy 42nd birthday, dean winchester!

It was quiet in the bathroom. 

It was quiet in his bedroom, too--the only sound in the darkness was Cas’ soft breathing beside him--but here the quiet felt _clean_.

It was just after midnight, the first minutes of Dean being forty-two, and although he had fallen asleep to soft kisses after going over the plans for today--a party, everyone was coming in, Jody and Donna and the girls, and Charlie and Stevie, and Eileen basically lived at the bunker (really, in Sam’s room) now, so of course _she_ would be there--now it all felt like a little much.

Dean wasn’t normally the kind of guy who stopped to consider the state of things. Life just sort of happened, and he rolled along with it. That’s how it had gone for the past forty-two years: somewhere, early on, his father had told him pain was weakness, so he pushed through.

But now he was doing that, the whole stopping thing, and all of that _stuff_ was starting to crash down on him, especially the past few months. He’d woken in a cold sweat with the love of his goddamn life curled around him like the world’s grumpiest koala, and instead of just pulling Cas somehow even closer and going back to sleep, he’d been hit with the fact that _Cas died and they defeated God and then they had to save Cas and then he was human and--_

Yeah.

So, the bathroom.

Specifically, spending the first few minutes of his birthday lying on the cold tile with his eyes closed. He knew his back would hurt like hell--he was too old for lying on the floor--but maybe he could sleep here and wake up feeling rejuvenated and calm and not like he was going to--

Dean wasn’t sure _what_ he would do.

The door creaked and then Dean heard soft footsteps. He turned his head to see bee-patterned slipper socks and then there was a former angel laying on the bathroom floor next to him.

They lay in silence for a little bit, until Cas finally said, “You know, this isn’t very sanitary. I’m not sure Jack has quite gotten the hang of mopping the floor.”

Dean snorted.

“And our bed is much more comfortable.”

_Our bed._

Because it was theirs, huh? After over a decade of stolen glances and a couple of apocalypses and coming back from the dead again and again--it was _theirs._ So was this.

It was, at times like this, hard to accept. 

Cas was, of course, still Cas, and so instead of talking more he just took Dean’s hand in his own, interlacing their fingers, and rubbed his thumb slowly over the back of Dean’s hand. 

This was nice.

He was already starting to feel less scrambled.

“What if,” Dean asked into the silence, “What if I screw this up?”

“What?”  
  
“This real shot I’ve got at a good life.”

“You won’t.” Cas sounded so goddamn confident.

“How do you know that?”

Cas turned his head to look at Dean, and Dean looked back into those eyes, bluer than blue (how was that color even possible?). “Dean, how many times have we--Sam included--screwed things up?” 

(Dean could hear the air quotes, even if Cas wasn’t doing them.)

“A lot,” Dean said. He was gonna need a hell of a lot more fingers to list everything. 

“And yet...here we are.” 

Cas was right, wasn’t he?

Cas was _always_ there--it didn’t matter if Dean was losing his temper, taking the mark, becoming a demon, kicking him around, letting Michael in, fighting Lucifer, or if they were fighting each other...

Cas forgave him every time, and Dean always forgave Cas, too. How could he not?

_I know how you see yourself, Dean. You see yourself the same way our enemies see you...And you think hate and anger, that's... that's what drives you. That's who you are. It's not. And everyone who knows you sees it. Everything you have ever done, the good and the bad, you have done for love._

“Let’s go back to bed,” Cas said. He sat up, and Dean let Cas pull him up, too.

It wasn’t until they were back in bed, with Cas holding him, that Dean whispered a, “Thank you.”

“Happy birthday, Dean,” was Cas’ soft response. 

The other words remained unspoken. They didn’t have to be said, because Dean knew them to be true.

_I love you._

_I love you, too._


	11. beach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> for starrynightdeancas' 2k follower celebration!

Dean thought that everything was going well.

Cas had adapted fairly well to being human in their post-Chuck world, although he had developed a handful of new human quirks. He slept like the dead, liked all of his food really spicy, and developed an unusual affinity for flat white coffees.

(He was also a _great_ person to cuddle with, and it led Dean to wonder why he’d continued to sleep alone all these years.)

But, once again, everything was going well.

That is, until Dean walked into the bunker’s kitchen while Cas was doing dishes and discovered him dancing and lip-synching along to a goddamn Beach Boys song. That’s right, the sixties’ “rock” group (although Dean wouldn’t refer to them as _rock,_ not even at gunpoint). The dulcet tones of the song _Kokomo_ echoed through the kitchen. 

_Aruba, Jamaica, oh I want to take you to Bermuda, Bahama, come on pretty mama Key Largo, Montego, baby why don't we go Oh I want to take you down to Kokomo, we'll get there fast and then we'll take it slow That's where we want to go, way down in Kokomo_

Dean shook his head and left the kitchen, unseen, and that was that. 

Until the next week, when Cas was washing his truck outside and Dean went to bring him a beer and discovered Cas was listening to Jimmy freaking Buffet. 

“You know this isn’t really music,” Dean said, using his bottle to pop the cap off of Cas’. 

“Why not?” Cas dried his hands on his shorts (which were...distracting, to say the least) and took the proffered beer. 

“I--it just isn’t. I mean, _Jimmy Buffet?_ He’s some fish-loving guy that wrote a song named _Margaritaville_? And he’s from _Florida.”_

_“_ Actually, he’s from Mississippi.” Cas took a swig of the beer. “And I like his music.”

Apparently this was a lost cause. 

(Dean would never tell Cas, but after enough of hearing songs like _Wouldn’t it Be Nice, Surfin’ USA, Good Vibrations, Mañana,_ and _Cheeseburger in Paradise_ , he finally admitted that maybe Cas’ teeny-bopping beach-pop wasn’t so bad.)

(Although he would _never_ play it in the Impala.)


	12. college au/valentine's

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> also I've been binge re-watching community recently so there are some homages to the show in here xp

The start of the spring semester at Greendale Community College meant a couple of things. One, someone would inevitably attempt to break the pillow/blanket fort length record set by a couple of students years back. Two, the chemistry lab would have at least three fires a _week_ as the chemistry 102 students became erroneously overconfident. Three, there would be a Valentine’s dance, and there would be _lots_ of lead-up to it. 

Starting almost as soon as classes did.

Dean rolled his eyes as he walked down the hall to his Spanish class--the wall of the college were already papered with posters advertising the dance in the cafeteria. 

Dean had never gone to the dances, though, so he quickly pushed it out of his mind in favor of conjugating verbs and getting a passing grade. Every year, he and his best friend/roommate Cas stayed in, watched a combination of westerns and cheesy rom-coms, ate popcorn, and got comfortably drunk.

So that was what they were doing this year, right? 

Wrong.

“You know,” Cas said that night, as they were brushing their teeth in their apartment’s cramped bathroom, “I was thinking of going to the dance this year.”

Dean swished, spit, and stared at him. “You’re joking.”

“Why would I joke? I mean, we’re scheduled to finish our degrees in May--this is our last chance.”

“Cas, give me one good reason I should go to the dance.”

“There will be food?” Cas shrugged. “It’ll be fun?”

“I said a _good_ reason, Cas.”

“I’ll be there.” 

And that was good enough. If Cas went to the dance, Dean would be alone, and their usual Valentine’s plan would just be miserable if he was by himself. 

Over the weeks leading up to the dreaded dance (and what kind of college has dances, anyways?), talk around it only ramped up. In Dean’s physics lab, all the guys were talking about which girls (or, in his lab partner Benny’s case, guys) they were thinking about asking to the dance. Cas was a dance major, and he claimed his modern dance class was building the playlist for the shindig. As soon as February first hit, all the cookies in the dining hall were heart-shaped. 

“You thinking of asking anyone?” Dean asked Cas one afternoon a week before the dance. He was driving the two of them to the grocery store--after Dean had gotten a car in high school, Cas had simply not learned to drive, so Dean was sort of his personal chauffeur. 

(Not that he minded.)

Cas shrugged and stared out the window.

“I know Meg Masters has had her eye on you since our second year,” Dean continued, “Or if you’re looking for a guy, I know a couple who are pretty open.”

“You know,” Cas said after a pregnant pause, “We could always go together. We do everything together anyways.”

It took Dean about five seconds to process what Cas had said, and then he suddenly pulled his car to the side of the road, breaking so hard that Cas’ head almost slammed into the dashboard.

“What was _that_ about?!” Cas exclaimed.

“Cas...are we dating?” 

Cas stared at Dean. “ _What?”  
_

“I mean, you’re right. We live together, go shopping together, we haven’t dated anyone since high school, and we spent nearly every holiday together.” Dean looked at Cas in confusion. “And I don’t actually want you to go to the dance with anyone. I was just trying to be nice.”

“I--” Cas was still staring. “Oh my god. Just a second.” He pulled his phone out and dialed a number. “Hey, Gabe.” Oh, so he was calling his brother. “Are Dean and I together?” Cas pulled his phone away from his face. “Gabe says we are, and also that we’re both idiots.”

“I guess he’s right on both counts.”

(As it turned out, the Valentine’s dance was more fun than Dean had anticipated--and even more fun with a date, especially if that date was Cas. Although Dean still wasn’t sure why his _college_ had dances.)


	13. wings

It hurts more than Cas expected it to.

Of course, the artist told him it would hurt, and even more than that, _Dean_ told him it would hurt, and Cas trusts Dean more than anything.

But he had to do this, for himself.

Cas cranes his head so that he can see his back in the mirror--what he sees is a pattern of black ink and raised, red skin. The tattoo artist said with a tattoo this big, it would take a while to heal, but Cas doesn’t mind. He likes being able to see the black wings unfurled over his skin.

They’re not exactly like his wings, long gone now, along with his angelic nature, but they’re close enough, and then pain of them healing is like finally getting closure on the pain of falling from grace. 

It was a choice, but it still hurt.

The weeks pass, and these new scars heal, until they can finally be touched without sharpness or pain, and Cas lays facedown in their bed while Dean trails his fingers across them, leans down and presses a kiss to one of Cas’ shoulder blades, reverent. 

Every time with Dean is good, but this is something special--Cas is held gently, and their touches are slow, a gradual build. There is no need for haste, and through it all, Cas feels calm, safe, happy--

_Loved._

Afterwards, they lay tangled up in a gentle yet reassuring embrace. Dean’s breathing is soft and steady, with one of his hands trailing up and down Cas’ back. 

“I wish I could have seen them,” Dean whispers, “For real.”

Cas remembers the day he met Dean, showing his wings in shadow. He remembers how, over time, that shadow went from mighty to broken and ragged. 

Cas has spent much of his long existence being “broken,” with others trying to fix him.

He doesn’t feel so broken anymore. 

Eventually, they drift off to sleep, with Cas letting himself float away into the afterglow. This is the best it’s ever been, and it’s his. 

He does not need his own wings to fly. 


	14. firsts

Cas Milton had fallen in love once, and only once. 

When he first realized that he was hopelessly in love with his best friend, Dean, he said to himself, _this is the first time I have fallen in love._ Cas had thought that maybe, after a few years, he would fall for someone else, but that hadn’t happened. 

He and Dean had graduated high school together, gone to college together, and remained roommates throughout. And now it was January of their first year out of undergrad, and they were still living together, because why do anything else? 

(It was a sweet torture, living with Dean.)

Right now, though, it was a different kind of torture, because Dean was going through a breakup, which meant he had spent the past two days laying on their couch, hogging the TV to binge-watch _Downton Abbey,_ lay around, and drink a lot of beer. 

“Dean,” Cas said, grabbing the remote and pausing the episode before sitting down next to his best friend, “You gotta stop doing this.”

“Why? I’m a _failure,_ man. I can’t keep up a relationship--Lisa told me I was ‘too distant.’ What does that even mean?”

“C’mon, that doesn’t make you a failure. I’ve never dated. Does that make me a failure?”

“You have too dated. You took Meg Masters to prom. Junior year. I remember.” Dean waved his current beer bottle at Cas. “You thought she was _pretty_.”

“She was pretty. Her dress was very nice.” Cas sighed. “But we didn’t _date_ , Dean.”

“Fine, fine.” Dean took a swig of his beer and then stared at Cas. “Do you think I'm pretty?”

“I--” Cas swallowed thickly. _Of course_ he thought Dean was pretty. He was all the nice adjectives-- _beautiful. Handsome. Attractive._

And _unattainable._

“Uh, yeah,” Cas said, throwing in a laugh that he hoped was casual, “Absolutely.” 

There was a period of silence where Dean just stared at a random spot on the wall. Finally, he spoke. “Y’know, I didn’t even love Lisa. I just wanted to.”

“...So why are you so upset that she dumped you?”

“Cuz of something else she said.” Dean downed the rest of the beer. 

“What was that?” 

Dean lolled his head back, avoiding eye contact. “She said she knew who I really loved, and that it wasn’t her. And then she said I was a coward.”

“You’re not a coward,” Cas said, even as his heart fell. He had known Dean for nearly ten years now--if Dean loved Cas, he would have told him, right?

Right?

“Yeah, I am. Takes beer and period dramas to get me to spill my guts.” Dean pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Got drunk a few years ago, epically, and called Sam. Left him the worst voicemail. He recorded it and sent it to me.”

“Oh?” Cas couldn’t help it, his curiosity was piqued. 

Dean pressed play, and his voice, slightly slurred, filtered out of the phone. “Hey Sammy, can you pick me up? I would call Cas, but I can’t, cuz I'm runnin’ away from him, cuz I love him too much, y’know? You know.” There was a cough on the recording, and then it continued. “I think I'm gonna throw up. This was so stupid. Love is stupid. Bye.” _Click._

When Cas could finally bring himself to look Dean in the eyes, what met him was an expression of anxiety and fear. Dean’s face was red.

“Feel free to ignore me forever, or whatever,” Dean said. “I probably just fucking ruined our friendship.”

“You didn’t ruin anything,” Cas said softly. “Did you mean it?”

“Duh. Wouldn’t be so upset if I didn’t.” 

“Hmm.”

“Hmm?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean, Cas?”

“Can I kiss you?”

“Please.” 

(Their first kiss was better than Cas had ever imagined.)


	15. homemade mug

It’s a clumsy thing, obviously homemade. The clay mug is made of stacked rings, and the handle has a visible crack in it. It’s painted alternating green-and-yellow stripes, and in blue paint it says _Best Mom Ever_ in child-like writing.

So, of course, Dean is crying about it.

 _Crying_ is maybe the wrong term--his eyes are welling up, though, and he scrubs them with his palms, willing the tears to retreat. There shouldn’t be anything to cry about--it’s just a stupid homemade mug in the homewares section of a Goodwill. 

But the fact that it’s here means that something happened, something bad, bad enough to give away a sentimental object like this. Dean doubts anyone will ever buy it. 

So he does.

He heads out of the store with the mug in his jacket pocket--it’s not that big and he’s only out ninety-nine cents--and shoots a text to Cas, letting him know that he’s going to the Wal-Mart next door. 

Wal-Mart is different than the thrift store, all bright lights and crowds of people. Dean wanders around aimlessly, picking up random things and then putting them down. He eventually finds himself in the beverage section, staring at the six-packs of beer and swallowing thickly. They’ve still got a bit of a drive ahead of them, but damn, he wishes he could have a drink.

“Thought I’d find you here,” Cas says, coming up behind him. “It was this or looking at pies in the freezer section. I checked there first.” He has a bag from Goodwill hanging off of his arm--Dean catches a glimpse of the yellow sweater Cas had been eyeing. 

Dean lets out a laugh, but it’s hollow. He looks around at anything and everything but Cas. 

“You’ve been crying,” Cas says, lowering his voice, “Are you okay?”

Dean shrugs. “It’s stupid, really.”

“Mmm.” That’s Cas’ _I’m not putting up with your bullshit, Dean,_ grumble, so Dean relents, pulling the mug out of his jacket pocket and handing it to Cas, who turns it over slowly in his hand, understanding dawning on his face.

“I wish I could bring her back.” Cas’ voice is soft, gentle, far gentler than Dean feels like he deserves. 

“S’not your fault she’s gone. C’mon, let’s get back on the road.” Dean tries to get them out of the store, but not before Cas finagles him into letting him buy a cream soda for the road. Dean relents, because of course he does. As they walk across the parking lot to the Impala, Cas takes Dean’s hand, tangles their fingers together. 

Cas is so good, too good to him, to someone who loses his patience constantly and is desperately lonely and feels like he’s profoundly fucked up.

(Cas doesn’t think he’s fucked up. Cas says he’s _human,_ no air quotes, and then, in a small voice, Cas once added that he thought he himself was more human than angel now.) 

Once they’re in the car, Dean puts the keys in the ignition, but he’s stopped from starting it by Cas’ hand. Cas gives him a searching look and then gently, gently puts his hand on Dean’s cheek and kisses him, soft and slow. 

“I love you,” Dean says when they pull apart. He can’t help it. He says it all the time, just to make sure Cas knows it’s true. 

Cas smiles at him. “I love you too.” 

They drive through the night with a classic rock station on low volume, Cas’ hand warm on Dean’s thigh, and Dean thinks that maybe everything will be alright.


	16. wings, chocolate, and blushing

So daytime temperatures in most of Kansas during February were in the forties and fifties, which doesn’t sound _that_ bad, but they also usually came with grey skies and rain.

Today was one of those rare sunny days, which meant that Cas was on the bunker’s roof, laying on his stomach, with his wings unfurled. The ground was still pretty chilly, so he brought a blanket out with him. 

It was Valentine’s Day, which meant nothing to celestial creatures and shouldn’t necessary mean anything to humans, but it did. When Dean took Cas with him to the grocery story last week, he’d grumbled as they’d passed the seasonal aisle, crammed with shiny red-and-pink boxes of chocolate. 

Dean’s bad Valentine’s-themed mood had only worsened as the week leading up to it had progressed, Cas had noted. It didn’t help that Sam had snagged a date for tonight. 

So part of the escape to the roof was to stretch his wings, but the other part was to avoid the so-called “wrath of Dean.” Sam kept shooting Cas knowing looks, but Cas did not, in fact, know. 

Cas heard the sound of a car driving away, and decided without rolling over to look that it must have been Sam, because it didn’t sound like the Impala and...yeah, Dean had been jumpy this week. 

He wasn’t quite drifting off, because angels don’t need sleep, but he was in a comfortable trance when he heard the familiar sound of boots stomping towards him. Cas didn’t bother to lift his head as he said, “Hello, Dean.”

“So Sam just left.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Cas extended his wings to get more of the sun. It was supposed to rain for a week after this. 

“Do you, uh, want to do something? A guy’s date night?” Dean was clearly joking, because he was _Dean,_ but he also sounded...flustered? 

Cas lifted his head in interest to see that Dean was blushing and hiding something behind his back. “What were you thinking?”

“I could make us dinner? Like burgers or something? And we could watch a movie?”

“I get to choose the movie,” Cas said. 

“Okay.” 

Cas squinted at Dean. “Why are you still just standing there?” 

“What do you want me to do?”

Cas shrugged as best as he could and let his head rest back on the cool ground. A few moments later, he felt shifting next to him and turned his head to see Dean laying on the blanket next to him. 

“I brought this with me,” Dean said after a moment of them just staring at each other. He was holding a small heart-shaped box. “It’s, uh, chocolate.” 

Cas squinted more. “Dean, are you asking me out on an actual date?”

“Uh...” Dean blushed further, and Cas had to admit that the pink shade on his cheeks was _quite_ attractive (of course, so was Dean, even when he was being frustrating like he had been this past week). “Yeah?”

“Okay,” Cas said, and he felt an uncontrollable smile blooming across his face. “That sounds nice.”

“Awesome.” 

They didn't go inside immeadiately, though. Instead, Dean took Cas’ hand in his, slowly and tentatively, and Cas’ wings stretched out over both of them, warming in the waning sun, and for the first time in a while, things were genuinely calm. 


	17. valentine's proposal

Dean got the idea a few months ago. 

He was watching one of those rom-coms (that he only watches because Cas likes them, thankyouverymuch) that ends in a proposal and happy tears and glanced over at Cas, who was wiping away tears of his own at the scene before them, and realized with a hard stop that he wanted that with the former angel sitting next to him. 

Then he spent a few days freaking out about it before he asked Sam for help. 

Now it was Valentine’s Day, and maybe that was a cliche and dumb day to propose, but it just _seemed right_ and like something Cas would enjoy, and if Dean had to rank his top priorities, they would be 1) make Cas happy, 2) don’t get murdered, and 3) bug Sam. 

Dean had it all planned out: He and Cas were going to go out to dinner (not that the burgers Dean made in the bunker’s kitchen weren’t _killer,_ but they had those at least once a week) and then for desert, at which point Dean would get down on one knee and pop the question. 

But, like most things in Dean’s life, nothing went to plan.

Dean was woken up far earlier than usual by the sound of Cas next to him in their bed, coughing like he was about to hack up a lung. Dean sat up and rolled over, pressing a hand to his forehead, to discover that Cas was burning up.

“Lay back down,” Dean ordered, his sleepiness leaving him. He shoved some extra pillows under Cas’ head and went on a journey through the bunker to find cough medicine and painkillers.

It was clear when Cas was still lying in bed, drifting in and out of sleep when he wasn’t being plied with some horrendous herbal tea that Dean had found shoved in the back of the cabinet, at noon that dinner was out of the question. Dean felt panic swirling in his stomach, both for Cas’ well-being and for his proposal plans.

Unfortunately, Sam had already left with Eileen (they had decided to make a real day out of the holiday and were about three hours away), so Dean was on his own. He rummaged through their cabinets and the fridge before gathering the ingredients for chicken noodle soup.

The soup was simmering when Dean heard shuffling footsteps behind him and turned to see Cas, wrapped in a blanket and with the world’s most horrendous bed-head, standing in the kitchen doorway. 

“How’re you feeling?” Dean asked, walking towards him and reaching a hand out to feel his forehead. It was still warm, although less so than it had been this morning.

“Meh,” was Cas’ mumbled reply as he slowly sat down at the table.

Soon enough, the soup was ready, and Dean dished out a bowl for Cas and then one for himself. He opened up a sleeve of crackers between them at the table and put some more medicine next to Cas’ water glass.

“Thank you,” Cas said, the first smile of the day finally gracing his features. It hurt Dean that Cas wasn’t feeling well, but to be the reason that Cas smiled when he felt like shit?

That was pretty damn priceless.

Cas napped again after lunch while Dean did the dishes, but eventually roused in the early evening while Dean was sweeping the war room because Miracle kept tracking mud through it after walks outside. Cas leaned heavily against the table and sighed.

“What’s up?” Dean asked.

“I feel bad for ruining our date,” Cas mumbled.

“You don’t feel well, it’s fine,” Dean replied. “We can watch a movie in the Deancave, though, if you’re feeling up for it. I’ll even let you choose.”

“Alright,” Cas said, but he still seemed upset. 

Dean understood. He’d been in slight panic mode all day, because he had no idea what to do about the proposal, whether he should just go for it or push it off to another time, go on a fancy date next week instead. 

It wasn’t until they were curled up on the couch, watching _Ten Things I Hate About You_ for the umpteenth time (and if Dean was okay with the pick because he got to stare at Heath Ledger, well...that was his business) that the answer came to Dean. He was happiest here, now, with Cas, watching a 90s rom-com and being wrapped up in about six blankets. He was excited to have a whole rest of his lifetime of moments like this. 

“Hey, Cas,” Dean whispered in the middle of the prom night scene, “I gotta question.”

“Mmm?” Cas turned toward him, his eyes drooping with tiredness. He was definitely going to need more cough medicine and sleep after this.

“You wanna get married?”

“Absolutely.” Cas settled back into watching the movie, as if deciding to marry Dean was the easiest thing in the world, but Dean got it. 

Choosing Cas was never hard.


	18. destiel wedding!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> of course I had to write a wedding drabble. what a weekend, y'all.

All of it felt natural, easy. For a guy who never thought he would get married, marrying Cas was a no-brainer. 

The proposal wasn’t anything fancy--one day Cas shuffled into the kitchen in search of his morning cup of tea with some splendid levels of bedhead and Dean nearly dropped the egg carton he was holding before asking _you wanna get married_?

Cas had nodded blearily, and later Dean offered to re-do the proposal, better, with a ring and flowers and down on one knee, not rescuing the eggs from breaking before he could make pancakes, but Cas had just smiled at him, said _no, Dean, it was perfect._

And it was, wasn’t it?

This wasn’t like a wedding from one of those rom-coms Cas “made” Dean watch, and Dean couldn’t bring himself to care, because it was _their_ wedding. Sure, there was karaoke at the reception for some reason, and they ran out of beer pretty fast, and Sam cried his way through the service even though Dean was the Winchester getting married (although Sam would be next, if Eileen had anything to do with it), but, well...it all just seemed _right_.

When the night ended, Dean wasn’t relieved--he was simply content, which was a new one, but he liked it. It had been a whirlwind of weekend--the bachelor parties (he had tried to wrangle his way into having a joint one, but Cas refused and Dean had heard some.... _stories_ about Cas’ bachelor party), a rehearsal dinner with an oddly heartfelt toast from Claire, and then the wedding itself. 

They drove off in the Impala to the hotel they’d booked a room at ( _You have to get a room at a real hotel, Dean, not a roadside motel,_ Sam had insisted, and Dean had rolled his eyes, but he liked the idea of having his first time as a married man in a bed that was at least _somewhat_ clean) and Dean had expected to be ready to get bent by his husband (his _husband_ ) over the nearest piece of furniture as soon as they got there, but instead he was exhausted, immediately flopping onto the queen-sized bed.

Dean and Cas both ended up getting horizontal in the sleepy way instead of the sexy way, but Dean figured as he drifted off to sleep that they had their honeymoon--and their whole life--ahead of them. 

It was gonna be a pretty damn good forever. 


	19. snow day

Cas woke up Monday morning to a freezing--and empty--bed. He sat up, rubbing his eyes and sliding his feet into his slippers next to his bed. He could hear the radio playing from downstairs, overlapped with toddler chatter.

_"Reports say that eight to twelve inches of snow are expected, and that several major roads in the county have already closed. Both the city and county school districts have closed for the next three days."_

Cas followed the sound of the news down the stairs and into the kitchen, where Dean was at the stove, scrambling eggs and frying bacon. Their son, Jack, was in his high chair at the kitchen table, and when he saw Cas, he waved his arms and pointed at the window.

"Hey, kiddo," Cas said, crossing the room and scooping Jack up. "Excited about the snow?"

"Daddy said we're gonna build a snowman," Jack said. "Can we?"

"After breakfast." With Jack in tow, Cas turned to the stove and pressed a kiss to his husband's cheek. "I take it neither of us don't have work today?"

Dean shook his head, grinning. "Snow day for everyone. Jack's daycare is closed, anyways--his teacher sent an email."

Cas was a librarian at the local elementary school, and Dean worked for his uncle Bobby's auto shop, which meant that they were occasionally strapped for time when Jack's daycare closed but they still had work. Cas breathed a sigh of relief before setting Jack down and turning to the coffee maker. Snow or not, he was _not_ a morning person.

Jack was a little picky, so convincing him to eat all of his breakfast was tricky on a normal day, and the snow provided an extra distraction. Cas gave up trying to get Jack to eat just one forkful of eggs and let Dean trade his apples for Jack's bacon. But Cas couldn't help being just as excited as Jack. While it snowed fairly often where they lived, it was usually just a dusting of snow, not enough for snowball fights or building snowmen or making snow angels.

After spending about ten minutes wrestling a wriggling almost-four-year-old into his coat, hat, and mittens, they were ready to go out.

The front yard of their little house was a veritable winter wonderland, like something out of a movie--icicles hanging from the eaves, a dusting of snow on the shrubbery, the front walk completely obscured by snow. It was beautiful enough that Dean didn't complain about his car, the Impala, being covered in snow (although that may have had something to do with him not having to dig it out and scrape it off to go to work).

The snow was already halfway up to Jack's shins, but Jack didn't seem to mind, throwing himself face-first into the ground and then rolling over, laughing, his cheeks tinged red with cold.

Cas was too focused on watching Jack that he didn't noticed what Dean was up to until a snowball, cold and wet, hit him in the side of the face. "Hey!" he complained, bending down and scooping up some snow and packing into a ball. Dean laughed at him and ducked behind a bush. A few seconds later, another snowball hit Cas square in the chest. Cas turned to Jack. "You want to help me gang up on Daddy?"

"Yes!"

Cas showed Jack how to make a snowball, although the tiny ones Jack could make with his little hands probably wouldn't make that much of a difference. With their snowballs in hand, they crept around the bush Dean had disappeared behind.

Before Cas had chance to lob his snowball, he was being tackled onto the ground, the snow icy on his neck, Dean grinning at him from on top of him. Seconds later, a tiny snowball hit Dean in the forehead and both Dean and Cas craned their heads to see Jack standing next to them and giggling.

"You're making a monster out of our kid," Dean said, rolling off of Cas.

"Mmm-hmm, that's definitely on me and not the person who _started_ the snowball fight." Cas took the opportunity to scoop up some snow and then grab the collar of Dean's coat, shoving the snow down the front of it. "Ack!" Dean shivered. "Rude."

Cas shrugged, trying not to laugh before another tiny Jack-lobbed snowball hit him in the face.

"That's what you get," Dean said to him, before turning to Jack. "You wanna make that snowman now?"

"Yeah!"

They ended up building a snowman nearly as tall as Jack--Dean did the bottom, Cas did the middle, and Jack enthusiastically made the head, which was shaped more like an oval than a circle. The hunt for sticks and rocks for arms, eyes, and buttons took a while, owing to the amount of snow that had fallen, and then Dean disappeared into their garage, coming back with an old stocking cap to put on the snowman's head. The whole scene was so cute that Cas couldn't help but take his phone out and snap a picture of Dean and Jack putting the finishing touches on the snowman, even if it froze his fingers. The snow was starting to fall faster, though, and was now working its way up Jack's shins, so it was eventually time to head inside.

"The snow will be here later," Cas said as he picked Jack up.

"Promise, Papa?"

"Mmm-hmm."

When they got inside and shed their now-damp coats next to the front door (Cas knew he would regret not hanging up the coats immeadiately later, but right now he was _cold_ ), Jack begged for hot chocolate and Dean was, as usual when it came to their son, powerless to say no. While Dean started heating up milk on the stove, Cas went into their living room and turned on the fireplace. Their house was getting on in years, and it could be quite drafty and cold in the winter, especially on a snow day.

The three of them curled up on the couch with their hot chocolate (Jack's had a veritable mountain of marshmallows) and watched the snow fall outside the living room windows while the fire crackled.

"Today," Jack declared, "Is the best day _ever_."

"Ever? That's a pretty big deal," Dean said. "What makes it the best day ever?"

"We got to build a snowman. And Papa put snow in your shirt." Jack giggled and Dean frowned over his head at Cas. "And I have hot chocolate." He pronounced _chocolate_ with about half the letters missing.

Playing in the snow tuckered Jack out, so after lunch he went down for a nap a little earlier than usual. By the time Dean emerged from Jack's room, Cas was about halfway through doing the lunch dishes--they'd had grilled cheese with tomato soup, a snow day favorite for their little family.

"Sorry about shoving snow down your shirt," Cas said as he finished scrubbing the grilled cheese pan.

"You don't have to lie, you're not sorry at all." Dean came up behind Cas, wrapping his arms around him. "You're right, I _did_ start the snowball fight, although it seems like Jack ended it."

"He's gonna want to play in the snow again after his nap," Cas said, moving onto the soup pot. Dean pressed a kiss to the back of Cas' neck and then disentangled himself to help rinse the dishes.

"He's not gonna be this little forever." Dean said.

"Don't remind me. In the fall he'll be one of the pre-kindergarteners coming to my library." Cas sighed.

They finished washing the dishes in comfortable silence. Once the last plate was balanced on the drying rack next to the sink, Dean turned to Cas. "What do you say we get some rest, too?"

It was a pretty good offer, a nap on the couch, curled up in his husband's arms as the fire warmed the living room and the snowdrifts built up outside. The nap would most certainly end with a toddler jumping on them, but even so, Cas had to agree with Jack: today was the best day ever.


	20. seven days of snowfall

Snow often quickly turns to rainy slush here in central Kansas, so when the snowfall came, clear and clean and thick with blotted gray skies and massive drifts, they relished it. 

Cas, newly human, insisted on going out without a coat and came back inside before Dean had even finished getting himself suited up. They dragged Jack and Sam and Eileen out with them, had a rousing snowball fight and built the tallest snowman they could manage, and then went back in and drank hot chocolate and cider and watched a movie in the Deancave.

That was a week ago, and the snow hasn’t stopped.

They’re all officially snowed into the bunker, and while it’s state-of-the-art, it’s state-of-the-art for the 1950s, and _underground,_ so the cold has started to seep in, and if Cas didn’t like going outside when it was cold...

Dean wakes up at six am, leaves a sleeping Cas in their bed, and heads to the kitchen to make coffee and toast. He pulls out his phone, glances at the weather report--two more days of road closures are predicted. The bunker may be large, but Dean’s getting cabin fever. He wants to take Baby for a drive, have better places to hide from Sam’s new snowed-in cataloguing project in the archives, not get roped into binge-watching television with Jack.

(Not that he dislikes watching TV with Jack, but...they’ve been doing it a lot for the past few days.)

When the small breakfast is ready, Dean slides all the toast onto a plate, buttering it and adding jelly--not jam--to two of the pieces. Carrying two cups of coffee and a plate to his bedroom isn’t easy, but Dean makes it in one piece. Cas is still asleep under the mound of blankets they procured, and Dean worries, not for the first time, that Cas might be getting a cold. 

He slides back into bed but sits up against the headboard to eat his toast, his feet finding Cas’ shins. Cas jerks awake a moment later and glares at Dean.

“Your feet are cold.”

“Well, good morning to you too, sunshine. Toast?” Dean offers the side of the plate with the jelly-covered pieces of toast to Cas. 

“Hmph.” Cas shimmies up and takes one of the pieces of toast. He’s wearing an undershirt, a long-sleeve t-shirt, and a hoodie, and Dean is pretty sure that yesterday Cas wore a similar amount of layers _and_ a flannel. Dean offers him a cup of coffee next.

“What do you wanna do today?” Dean asks, brushing crumbs off his shirt. “I’m pretty sure that if we invent a task, Sam won’t make us--”

“Nothing.”

“Hm?” 

“Let’s just not do anything today.” Cas folds up his piece of toast so he can more easily shove it in his mouth. “It’s too cold. And there’s _nothing_ we have to do.”

Cas is right. They’re snowed in, so no hunts, and Sam can coerce someone else into doing the cataloguing that doesn’t need to be done, and Jack will happily find something to do by himself. 

Dean finishes the last bite of his toast. “Best idea you’ve had all week, Cas.”

“What about the hot bath with the--” Cas starts, with a look at Dean that indicates he knows _exactly_ what he was doing.

“Okay, now we’re _definitely_ not getting out of bed all day.” 


	21. popcorn and champagne

The house is empty, the only furniture being two deck chairs sitting in the living room Dean put in the trunk of the Impala before they headed to closing, but it doesn’t matter, because it’s _their house._

It was originally Cas’ idea to buy a house and move out of the cramped apartment they’d lived in since they graduated from college, and Dean quickly fell in love with it and the recently remodeled small, Victorian-style house they found. The whole finishing-college thing was five years ago, and in that span of time a lot’s happened: Cas has a master’s degree now, they got a dog, and, about a month ago, they got engaged. 

Dean looks over from arranging the chairs in front of their new fireplace to see Cas rummaging through the kitchen cabinets. 

“There’s nothing in there,” Dean says. “Or did you forget that we only own this house as of an hour and a half ago?”

“I brought a little something when we did the final walk-through,” Cas replies, pulling a bottle and a bag out of the cabinet. From this far, Dean can’t see what it is, but as Cas walks closer, he gets an idea.

“Champagne?” Dean asks. “Really?”

“And white cheddar popcorn. Your favorite.” 

They take the champagne out to the back deck to pop it open (Dean doesn’t want to clean the floors the first night they own the house) and then stay out, watching the sunset and passing the bottle back and forth. The champagne tingles on the way down, and Dean can't help but stare at his fiancé ( _fiancé,_ not _boyfriend, fiancé_ ) as he takes a drink and then runs a hand for his hair as he stares at the sun. The shadows and warm orange glow cast Cas’ cheekbones in sharp relief, and his eyes seem more blue than ever as he turns to Dean with a grin. 

“Ready to go eat popcorn in our empty living room?” Dean asks. 

Cas nods, and then takes another sip of champagne. “I was also thinking we could test out the water pressure of our new shower while we’re here.” He raises one eyebrow.

Yeah, this new-house and marriage thing is gonna work out just fine.


	22. cas moving into dean's room

It’s little things at first--Cas keeps leaving his coffee cups on Dean’s nightstand, his socks find their way into Dean’s dirty clothes hamper, Dean finds Cas’ books stacked up on his dresser. 

At first Dean thinks it must be because Cas isn’t an angel anymore, so he’s got more clutter and he’s starting to forget things (how old’s his vessel, anyways? It’s gotta be somewhere in middle age), but Dean has also noticed how he and Cas tip closer together more and more often. During movie night in the Deancave, Cas’ head ends up on Dean’s shoulder. They bump hips while Dean shows Cas how to make burgers in the kitchen. They brush their teeth side-by-side in the bathroom. 

Their first kiss could be construed as an accident, a one-off--Dean tells Cas he’s heading to the grocery store, does Cas want to go with him? And Cas says no, and then, oddly enough, leans in to kiss Dean on the cheek, and without thinking Dean turns his head to kiss Cas properly.

He thinks about it the whole drive to the store, it’s in the front of his mind as he wanders through the cereal aisle. He grabs two six-packs in the drinks section and wonders if he should just pretend it never happened.

He doesn’t, obviously, because it’s _Cas_ , and Dean is kind of relieved that it happened like this, slow and gradual, rather than in the heat of the moment. 

Cas starts leaving more things in Dean’s room, starts stealing Dean’s t-shirts (so Dean steals Cas’ fluffy socks in retaliation, because _damn_ they’re comfortable). Dean’s head ends up in Cas’ lap during movie night. They hold hands in the grocery store and share a shower and fold laundry together. 

And then Cas ends up leaving _himself_ in Dean’s room, molding a space just for him in Dean’s beloved memory foam, and it’s kind of perfect. Dean always felt like the bed was too big for one person, anyways. 


	23. time travel

_Lyman Jones, Dec. 14, 1942-March 25, 1986_ , the gravestone read, with no epithet or anything else underneath it. It was a routine salt-n-burn, the kind of thing Dean could practically do in his sleep. It was even easier with Cas helping--even without his angel mojo, Cas was strong, and if Dean took a couple of longer-than-necessary glances at Cas’ arms as he dug, well...that was his business. 

“We should be done with this in less than an hour,” Dean said, sighing with relief before climbing out of the half-dug grave to grab his water bottle. Cas followed suit and they both stared up at the clear night sky before leaning back against poor Lyman’s gravestone. 

Dean felt a curious tugging in his midsection, and glanced over at Cas to see Cas grabbing Dean’s wrist before everything went dark.

*******

Dean came to some indeterminate amount of time later, sprawled out on the ground with Cas on top of him. They locked eyes for a moment, and then Cas rolled off of him. 

“Where are we?” Dean asked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes. “And what _happened_?”

“Some sort of spell, I’m guessing,” Cas said, looking around. “I think we’re still in the graveyard--those trees over there have the same _Y_ shape.”

“But Lyman’s gravestone is gone.”

“Which means...” Cas pulled his phone out of his pocket and showed it to Dean. “No service. I think we’ve time traveled.”

“Well, _shit_. What are we supposed to do?” Dean stood up and stretched, looking in the direction of the cemetery’s parking lot. “The Impala is gone!”

“Well, it probably wasn’t here in...whatever year we’re in. Come on.” Before Dean could protest, Cas was grabbing him by the wrist again and dragging him off.

Much of the area around the graveyard looked similar, if a little older. At the first open shop they got to, a diner, Cas went inside and talked to the lady at the counter before coming out clutching a newspaper. 

_March 24, 1986._

“Isn’t this the day before that Lyman guy died?” Dean asked.

“Yes. Which makes me think we were sent here for a reason. But why?” Cas tilted his head as he looked up at the sky as if it would get him answers.

Dean stared at the newspaper in Cas’ hands. “Hey, Cas, why did Lyman die, again?”

“The police record said it was a drunk driving accident, that he hit a telephone pole.”

“Gimme that.” Dean took the newspaper out of Cas’ hand and leafed through it. “Here, the obits.” He pointed at a picture of a young girl. The obituary read:

_Helen Jones passed away from leukemia on March 20th. She was a student at Xavier Elementary School and attended St. Luke’s Catholic Church. She is survived by her father, Lyman Jones._

“I think Lyman was distraught about his daughter’s death and got trashed,” Dean said. 

“Maybe his soul is still in distress because of the circumstances of his death.”

“Yeah, dude probably had major regrets.” Dean turned to the diner. “Come with me.”

“What are we doing?” Cas asked.

“Well, I was alive in the eighties, you weren't. Well, I mean--you were, but you weren’t down here. If you want to call someone, they’re _always_ in the phone book.” Dean pointed at his pocket. “No cell phones.”

Cas followed Dean into the diner, where they asked the same lady Cas had talked to if they could see a phone book. Dean flipped to the _J_ s and ran his finger down the page until he found _Lyman Jones, 408-524-7831._

“Can you remember that?” Dean asked Cas. One of them could have typed it into the notes app on their phone, but he didn’t want to freak anyone out. Cas nodded. Dean flipped through the book again--he had an idea of what they could say when they called Lyman. “Memorize this one, too,” Dean said, reading the number out to Cas.

They thanked the woman at the diner and found a payphone a couple of blocks away. Luckily, Dean’s wallet was still in his pocket and it had some quarters in it, so he slid them into the receiver and waited. Lyman’s answering machine picked up. 

“Hi Mr. Jones, it’s....Dean Smith with Helping Hands Grief Counseling. We just wanted to extend our services to you. If you’re interested in setting up an appointment, you can contact us at 408-563-9812. Have a nice day!” Dean hung up the receiver to catch Cas staring at him. “What?” Dean said. “Maybe dude will get a handle on his grief instead of getting fucking wasted and dying.”

“Maybe you should take the advice you gave him,” Cas replied, tilting his head and smiling sadly. 

“I--Cas--c’mon,” Dean sputtered, turning and marching back in the direction of the graveyard. “I want to go back to our decade.” 

When they got back to the graveyard, there was a man standing at a gravestone a few yards away from the empty plot where Lyman Jones’ grave was supposed to be. As Dean and Cas walked behind him, Dean caught a glimpse of the name on the stone.

_Helen Jones, April 11, 1975--March 20, 1986._

So _this_ was Lyman Jones. 

The man--Lyman--stooped to set the bouquet of yellow flowers he was holding on the grave, and then turned around and nearly ran face-first into Dean. Lyman’s face was riddled with tear tracks.

“Sorry,” Dean said hurriedly. “Are you alright?” 

Lyman smiled at him weakly. “I’m fine, thank you.”

Dean glanced down at the flowers on the little girl’s grave, and then back up at Lyman, before making a split-second decision. “I hope this isn’t too...forward,” Dean said, “But when I was a kid, my mom died. And I spent a long time trying to do...a lot of things that weren’t great to get rid of that pain. I’ve learned recently it’s better to try and work your way through it.”

“Thank you,” Lyman said, looking surprisingly not angry. “I hope you have a nice day.”

When Dean turned around, Cas was staring at him in that peculiar way again. “Shut up,” Dean said.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to, though.” Dean frowned. “How do you think we get home?”

They tried standing over Lyman’s future (past?) grave, touching Helen’s gravestone, and a whole host of other things before Dean collapsed onto the grass, groaning. It was starting to get dark and cold, like it had been when Dean and Cas were digging up the grave in their own time.

“I have an idea,” Cas said.

“Hit me,” Dean said, blinking up at him. 

“If Lyman’s soul regretted the way it died and we helped him get rid of those regrets by preventing his death, maybe we need to make sure _we_ don’t have any regrets.”

“Hm.” Dean knew what his biggest regret was these days--never telling Cas how he felt--but he wasn’t gonna admit that. 

Or was he?

“I can go first,” Cas continued. “If that would make you more comfortable.”

What would make Dean more comfortable would be never spilling his guts to Cas, but Dean nodded.

“I--” Cas started, and then cut himself off before kneeling on the ground next to Dean and bending over. Before Dean could process what, exactly, was happening, Cas was pressing his lips against Dean’s, kissing him, and Dean was _kissing him back,_ and--

“ _Oof!”_ Dean exclaimed as his back slammed into the ground. Cas fell on top of him, once again, and Dean pushed him off, scrambling up to look around. There was the Impala. There was Helen’s grave, but Lyman’s was gone. There were the same _Y-_ shaped trees. 

And Cas, at his feet, staring at him. 

“We had the same regret, didn’t we?” Cas said in wonder. 

“I, uh...I guess so. C’mon.” Dean pulled Cas up by the hand. “Let’s get out of here.”

And if, when they got back to the car, they ended up making out before heading back to the motel, well...that was his and Cas’ business. 


	24. grocery store

Cas is really into cereal.

Dean supposes that, in the grand scheme of things, Cas could have weirder interests (okay, the bees are a little weird, but Dean did help build frames for the hives, so he can’t really talk), but he’s never met anyone quite so fascinated by all the different kinds of breakfast foods.

Recently, Cas has been taking a grand tour of every flavor of Cheerios ( _look, Dean, it says they’re “heart healthy”_ ), and, at the present moment, Cas is looking down at a list he’s written on a little post-it, and then back up at the shelves of Cheerios, over and over. 

“C’mon, dude,” Dean says, “We have other things to get, and the ice cream is gonna melt.” 

Cas frowns, sticks out his tongue in concentration, scans the shelves one last time, and finally picks the maple-flavored ones. Dean sighs as Cas puts the box in their cart, but he can’t help letting a fond smile slip out.

This whole _thing_ between them is kind of new, and there’s something about going to the grocery store together that just feels so domestic and...normal.

Dean didn’t think his life could ever feel normal. 

They always take longer in the grocery store when he brings Cas with him, because he wants to look at everything and actually browse the “sale” shelf hidden in the household cleaners. It means they leave with some weird snack mix or can of fruit that wasn’t on the list, but Dean doesn’t mind as much as he thought he would.

After the ice cream (Cas is also trying every flavor of that, this week is mint chip) and the cereal comes the check-out, where Cas always picks up a tabloid and flips through it, occasionally showing Dean something. It always ends in Dean taking the magazine from Cas and stuffing it back in the rack, because he’s not gonna buy that shit. He’s never had time for People Magazine before, so why now? 

All the check-out clerks know them, because Cas possesses approximately no shame and has no idea how much of a charmer he is--they all think he’s sweet. 

(Dean _knows_ Cas is sweet.) 

There’s the usual chatting while the cashier scans their items--how Jack is, what new tricks Miracle has learned, how far Eileen is along with the baby (twenty-one weeks, so about halfway there, there’s been a lot of teasing Cas about that time he bought a dumpster full of diapers), the bees...Cas can talk to nearly anyone about anything. 

Maybe it’s weird that Dean is at his happiest buying eggs and milk and that one kind of cheese Sam is really into right now with a former wavelength of celestial intent who also happens to be his boyfriend, but if it is, then Dean doesn’t care. 

He’ll take happy any way he can get it. 


	25. dean and the handprint

Dean’s shoulder aches. 

It has since Cas yanked him out of hell--no, _gripped him tight and raised him from perdition._ Cas had gripped him tight, all right, the handprint seared into Dean’s shoulder. Even though the print’s been gone for years now, and Dean has known Cas for over a decade, it still throbs sometimes. 

It’s hurt more in the past few months, since Cas’ confession and the bloody handprint he left on Dean’s jacket, a sorry reminder of the original one. When they figured out a spell to bring Cas back from the empty, they needed a piece of him, so Dean had carefully cut the handprint out of his jacket, let the dried blood be the part of Cas. 

It worked.

Dean rolls over to look at the angel laying beside him in the bed, nearly out of grace, low enough that he sleeps now, exposing that shoulder to the air as he does. Cas’ breathing is slow and steady, his hair flopping over his forehead, face squished into the pillow. 

Beautiful. 

Dean can’t fall back asleep, though--he woke to his aching shoulder because he had another one of those nightmares where the spell didn’t work and he was left without any of Cas for eternity, just a ghost, some memories. Watching Cas sleep is grounding, reminds him that this is--as Cas once told him-- _real._

Eventually Cas’ eyes blink open and he stares at Dean blearily, and then frowns. “How long have you been awake?” If Cas’ normal voice is deep, his morning voice is something to reckon with. 

“Uh...a while?” Dean tries.

“Bad dream?”

“Something like that.”

Cas wraps Dean in his arms, snuggles his head into Dean’s chest. Dean had never had much experience with sleepy Cas before this, but it’s kind of the best, a Cas that’s warm, pliable, a little bit sleep-drunk and a lot affectionate. 

“Want to talk about it?” Cas asks, his voice slightly muffled, and Dean decides that, y’know what, maybe he does.

“Just...thinking about the handprint.”

“Hm?”

“Like...from my jacket, from when you--” Dean can’t finish the sentence, and Cas tightens his arms around Dean. “It was just a lot like the...original one. It still hurts.”

Now Cas lifts his head. “Really?”

“Like a ghost pain or something. I kinda miss it sometimes.” Dean tries to look anywhere but Cas, but that’s kind of difficult in their current position. 

“I could put it back,” Cas offers.

“You could--no, that’s fine.”

“I was actually trying to figure out what to do with the last of my grace--”

“Cas, _no_.” But before Dean can protest more, Cas is kissing him, which is a surefire way to make Dean shut up, and then he’s reaching up and gripping Dean’s shoulder, _that_ shoulder, and there’s a familiar searing pain, and Dean is flooded with warmth. When he pulls away, Cas is smiling at him.

“You’re not in charge of me,” Cas says, his smile getting bigger. 

“Yeah, I know _.”_

Later, after falling back asleep wrapped up in each other, and eventually waking up for real and having scrambled eggs and bacon for breakfast, Dean takes a look in the bathroom mirror, at the new handprint on his shoulder. This one is less angry than the original one, like it was put there with love. 

When Cas comes into the bathroom a few moments later and kisses Dean on the cheek before turning on the shower, Dean _knows_ it was.


	26. honey

Castiel is human now, and humans have routines.

Or so he’s heard.

Castiel’s routine goes a little something like this, these days: wake up. Find slipper socks--all of his pairs look like animals, because Jack got them for him. Today’s are whales. Kiss Dean on the forehead, because otherwise he gets grumpy about being left along in bed. Go the kitchen, make tea--green tea with ginger today, stir honey into the tea.

(From one of those bear-shaped honey containers. Castiel can never figure out how he could have spent millennia in existence without discovering these.)

Go outside. 

Castiel had started a garden on the bunker’s roof, and he likes to start the day here, listening. He can’t hear the song of creation anymore, but he can watch it, and that’s almost as good. 

It’s maybe even better. 

He’s done a lot of research for this garden--what flowers attract bees and butterflies, which vegetables are compatible with each other, how to make the basil prolific, the tomatoes juicy. He reaps the rewards of his labor in calluses on his hands and Dean’s cooking and moments like this, silent moments, moments of solace. 

It is a curious thing to be millennia-old and just now feel like his life is starting. 

Today’s a Saturday, which means that Dean will be in the kitchen making waffles for everyone when Castiel goes back inside, and Sam will have just come back from a run. Eventually they’ll end up piling into the Impala to go to the farmer’s market, where Dean will make fun of Cas for spending twenty minutes at the beekeeper’s tent before encouraging Cas to buy whatever honey he wants. 

Castiel doesn’t know what the afternoon will bring, but chances are that Miracle will need a bath and Castiel will walk out to the driveway to see Dean and Jack chasing the dog with a hose. Saturday nights are movie nights in the Deancave, always, and it’s Eileen’s turn to choose this week--she’s been hinting about a Diehard marathon. 

All of that is going to be wonderful, Castiel is sure of it. 

But this right here is pretty wonderful too. 


	27. warm blankets

In his three months as a human, Cas has come to a handful of conclusions. One, he’s thrilled to be able to enjoy peanut butter and jelly sandwiches again. Two, morning runs with Sam are not as bad as Dean had led him to believe. Three, being sick is _awful_.

After not having to work for over a decade thanks to his grace, Cas’ immune system had fallen behind, and it didn’t occur to any of the bunker’s residents that the former angel might need a flu vaccine until Cas was curled up pitifully on the couch, his nose streaming and a fever raging. 

Cas has spent all day here in the Deancave, binge-watching _House Hunters: International_ and trying to figure out how anyone could have the budgets these people have (besides the credit card fraud that the Winchesters are so fond of). Throughout the day, he’s had visitors: Jack with hot tea and honey, Dean with homemade chicken soup, Sam with cough medicine and pain killers, and Eileen with some good company. 

He hears footsteps behind him and then there’s Dean, with another mug of tea in one hand and blankets draped over his arm. 

“Are you sick, too?” Cas asks, his face falling.

“Nah, I got my flu shot. Plus I’m not as old as you.” Dean’s grinning, teasing him, and it does make Cas feel a bit better. “Just wanted to bring you more tea and some new blankets.”

“I have blankets.” “But you don’t have _these_ blankets. C’mon, you’ve been stewing in those all day.”

Reluctantly, Cas extracts himself from his blanket nest, shivering as he’s exposed to the air. Even in a sweatshirt and a pair of Dean’s sweatpants, he’s freezing. He stands up slowly, his body aching, and then Dean is draping the new blankets around him, wrapping them tight.

“They’re so _warm_ ,” Cas says in wonder. “What did you do?”

“Stuck them in the dryer for a little bit. Works like a charm.” Dean sits himself on the couch, pulling Cas down with him. “Wanna watch a movie? You’ve been sitting here with this stupid show all day.”

“It is pretty stupid,” Cas mumbles, tiredness from standing up overwhelming him. He lets his head sink into Dean’s shoulder and before he drifts off the last thing he feels is the gentle press of lips to his forehead. The last thing Cas thinks before sleep takes him is that he’s got to stick his pajamas in the dryer before he goes to bed for real--or get Dean to do it for him. 


	28. endlessly

Things are strange. 

Of course, things are often strange in Castiel’s life, especially these days. For one, he just got brought back from the dead. For another, he rode in the passenger’s seat of the Impala on the way back to the bunker. Sam drove, because when Dean tried to drive, the baby in the backseat--Jack, that’s _Jack_ \--started crying, and Dean had to switch spots and let Jack’s tiny hand wrap around one of his fingers. Only then did Jack stop crying.

As soon as they got back to the bunker, Dean went to put Jack to bed, leaving Castiel in the kitchen with Sam. That’s where Castiel is now, watching Sam putter around, cleaning up things that don’t need to be cleaned. There’s clearly something on his mind.

“You and Dean should talk,” Sam finally says.

“We usually do talk,” Castiel replies, unsure of what, exactly, Sam means. 

“I mean, really talk. Look--” Sam stops, grabs two beers out of the fridge and slides one across the island to Castiel, before continuing. “Dean gets...things get bad for him when you’re gone. Without Jack to take care of, I think he would have...” Sam doesn’t finish the sentence, but Castiel has a feeling he knows where it was headed. 

“Is Jack always like that?” Castiel asks.

“Obsessed with Dean? Yeah. I mean, things are still kinda complicated with Mom, and I’m not great with kids, but Dean...” Sam sighs. “I mean, he had to take care of me constantly when I was a baby. He’s always been really good with kids, better at expressing himself. And he and Jack...I mean, if Dean’s not with him, Jack gets really upset.”

“Wow,” Castiel says. He remembers a few years ago, helping Claire out, and how quickly Claire and Dean cottoned onto each other. And stories he’s heard from before he knew the Winchesters (sometimes it’s hard to believe there was a time in his life before them) where kids had been involved on a hunt and Dean saved the day.

Perhaps it’s only natural.

“But yeah,” Sam takes a deep swig of his beer. “Go find him and talk. I bet Jack is asleep by now.”

“Right.”

Castiel still feels odd, wrong-footed, though. It should be easy to talk to Dean--Dean’s one of his best friends, someone he would do anything for, _has_ done anything for. 

But he’s also _Dean_ , someone who can be complicated and feels things deeply, and if he’s been feeling bad enough to contemplate--

Castiel doesn’t know what to say to that.

He finds Dean in his room, sprawled out on the bed with a sleeping Jack next to him. There are beer bottles and a couple of whiskey bottles littering Dean’s nightstand, an overflowing wastebasket in the corner.

Sam was right. Things haven’t been great. 

Dean’s eyes flutter open when he hears Cas enter and he sits up, saying softly, “I know sleeping with babies can be bad, cuz I read one of those books you got, but he just...” Dean turns his gaze to Jack. “He doesn’t go to sleep unless I do this.”

Castiel nods.

Dean carefully scoops Jack up and carries him over to the crib in the corner of the room. The whole scene is both painfully domestic and painfully _Dean_ , and it causes something in Castiel’s chest to twinge. 

“But he’s out like a light now,” Dean says. “He’s already better at sleeping, it’s like he knows I don’t get much even without a crying baby.”

“Hm,” Castiel agrees. “Dean, can we talk?”

“Uh, sure? Let’s go somewhere else.” Dean takes one last look at Jack’s swaddled form and then leads Castiel out of his bedroom and to another room, which Cas has never been in before and is barren except for some armchairs and a foosball table.

“What’s this?” Cas asks as they settle into the armchairs.

“It’s...I dunno, a rec room or something. Thinking of putting a TV in here so we could watch movies. I’ve been calling it the Deancave and Sam has been getting annoyed with me.” Dean cracks a smile at a that. “Whaddya want to to talk about?”

“I, uh...” Castiel shrugs. “Sam just said I should talk to you.”

“Dirty traitor. Of course he did.” Dean frowns.

“We don’t have to if you don't want to, I just thought--”

“No, no, this’ll--I need to say this shit.” Dean swallows, before saying, “So, do you remember, about a year or so after we met, when we were trying to get the Colt back and gank Lucifer?”

“I do,” Castiel says, now completely unsure of where Dean is going with this.

“Well, I...I got zapped to the future. Or a future, I guess, by Zachariah. It was...2014 there, the world was overrun by this plague and zombies, Sam was...gone, he had said yes to Lucifer for good, and I met another version of myself who was...he wasn’t a great guy. Pretty cold and ruthless, willing to use people he cared about as bait or put them in harm’s way. He didn’t care about much anymore.” “I assume I wasn’t in this world?” Castiel asks.

“No, you were.” Now Dean looks genuinely pained. “You had lost almost all of your grace, and you spent your days...drinking and doing drugs and having sex. You had lost the trench coat and you were...different. You still thought I was pretty cool, though, and the other Dean, the Dean from that you’s time, he hated that.” 

“I see.” Something is coming into focus.

“You were Cas, but you weren’t _my_ Cas,” Dean says, the emphasis on the _my_ weighty.

“Was this the same night that you told me to never change?”

“Yeah,” Dean sighs. “It was. Something that the other you said, it just...it hit me. And I couldn’t let that happen to you, and I couldn’t let myself be the guy that made it worse. He said that the only thing you and that Dean had left was each other, that if the other me said it was time to go, then you would follow him. And I tried to talk to the future me about it, ask him why he was willing to put you in harm’s way just because you would follow him. He...he didn’t have an answer.”

“I have changed, though, Dean,” Castiel says after a moment. “And not in a bad way.”

“Yeah, but you coulda become that guy.” Dean’s fidgeting now, uncomfortable. “Anyways, after that it was...yeah. You know how things went, you were there. A lot of shit went down, and I tried not to think about that future I saw.”

“I see.”

There’s a vast, empty silence in the room as Castiel contemplates what Dean has told him. He wants to ask follow-up questions, figure out what, exactly, Dean means by what he’s said, but it’s rare that Dean is so open and calm about it, and Castiel doesn’t want to break the spell. He wants Dean to, what’s the phrase? Level with him. 

“And then we went to purgatory,” Dean continues suddenly. “And I spent a year looking for you and found you all dirty and scruffy--you still had that trench coat but you _looked_ like him. I was...starting to realize something, I guess? I mean, Benny helped me find you, and one night we were just hanging out, doing stuff, and he asked me what my deal was about you. I told him, I said you were one of my best friends, hell, just straight-up my best friend.”

“And what did he say?”

“He said I was full of shit, that no one spends a year in purgatory for a friend. I told him to shut the hell up, but he was right.”

This isn’t happening. This would never happen, because Castiel has heard that it won’t. The Empty’s words from when he was dead echo in his head.

_I know who you hate. I know who you love. There is nothing for you back there._

But maybe there is.

“There isn’t any use in trying to hide it from you,” Dean says. “You saw all the bottles. Every time you leave...I tell myself it’s because you’re like family, and you are, but not quite--” 

Castiel is tired of waiting, tired of having a weight lodged in his chest, and he hates how agitated and _small_ Dean looks, so before he can fully think out what he’s doing, he’s standing up and then leaning over Dean’s chair, his face inches from Dean’s.

He waits.

“There’s--there’s no way,” Dean says, breathless. 

“There is.” Castiel swallows, hopes he hasn’t miscalculated.

He determines a moment later when Dean seizes him by his collar and pulls him all the way down into a kiss that he did not, in fact, miscalculate. 

It’s clumsy and messy, because of the angle and the nerves and all of the _waiting,_ but Castiel doesn’t particularly care, and he’s getting the impression that Dean doesn’t, either. 

“Please don’t leave again,” Dean whispers into Castiel’s neck when they finally separate.

“I won’t,” Castiel promises. “Although I still can’t promise to never change.”

“That’s a good thing,” Dean replies. “I know that. Now.” 

Castiel doesn’t sleep, but when Dean finally heads back to his room to check on Jack and then try and get his four hours, Dean grabs Castiel by the trench coat sleeve. He stays, takes the pair of pajamas Dean sheepishly offers, finds himself curled around Dean in the big bed that doesn’t seem so big anymore. Neither Dean or Jack wake up all night. 

Castiel may not sleep, but he does sink into a fairly deep meditative state in the quiet darkness of Dean’s room. He “comes to” an indeterminate amount of time later to see that the room is empty, save him, and that all the bottles and trash are gone.

He pads into the hallway, still in that pair of Dean’s pajamas, and hears voices coming from the kitchen. He follows them to find Sam sitting at the table, talking to Dean, who’s standing at the stove with Jack swaddled and wrapped to his chest. Castiel feels his face reddening as his chest expands, and he makes a beeline for the table and sits across from Sam.

“I see you had that talk,” Sam whispers, grinning. 

“We did.” Castiel can’t help but smile back.

“Anyone not want bacon?” Dean asks from the stove, and Castiel and Sam both shake their heads. 

Castiel could get used to this, and he hopes he gets the chance to. 


	29. if only there were you

Dean has spent the whole week moaning and groaning about breaking up with Lisa, and Cas can understand why. He _gets_ it--they dated for nearly two years, did practically everything together. She was Dean’s date to Sam’s wedding, Dean actually wore a suit to take her out on Valentine’s Day, they were a unit, they were _Dean-and-Lisa_.

Until they weren't.

Cas has been in the know about things not working out between them for the past few months, because, as Dean’s roommate and long-time best friend, he’s Dean’s number one confidant. He’s heard Dean’s rants about how Lisa hasn’t been communicating well, ignoring him for days on end and blowing off pre-planned dates with no notice. On Monday night, she stopped by their apartment to inform Dean that they were “growing apart.”

Whatever that meant.

It’s exhausting, though, because Cas is massively-gigantically-hugely in love with Dean, and has been for a hot minute, but he has to play the part of supportive friend. 

Even when it sucks.

Now, they’re both flopped on the couch, bickering lightly about what movie to watch. They used to always have Saturday movie nights, but when Lisa came into the picture, Saturday night was date night. It’s good to have Dean back on the couch, even if he wants to watch _Tombstone_ for the umpteenth time.

While Cas scrolls endlessly through Netflix, hoping to find something else that Dean will consent to watch, Dean continues his ongoing, week-long diatribe about the break-up.

“I guess I don’t miss _her,_ I miss what she represented. And everyone thought we were so good together, y’know? So it made me look more like I had my shit together.”  
  
“But did you still want to be with her?” Cas asks, switching to the action genre when comedy lets him down with a lack of viable options. 

“Huh.” Dean considers the question, sprawling further on the couch. “I guess not. I wasn’t really enjoying it anymore.”

“Then maybe this is for the best.” Cas sees a movie called _Logan Lucky--_ it’s a heist movie. Looks promising. 

“I just don’t know who else I would date, though. There’s like...no one else I want to date.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I wish there was someone like you for me,” Dean says. “I mean, you’re pretty hot, Cas. And we have a lot of fun.”

_I wish there was someone like you for me._

Someone that was _like_ Cas, but wasn’t Cas. Cas isn’t going to be upset, because he _gets_ it, he has to. That’s how friendship works sometimes. He’s just good ole Cas. Just that.

When Cas hazards a glance at Dean, Dean is staring at him, his cheeks pink. Dean opens his mouth, and then shuts it. Cas tilts his head before asking, “What?”

“Cas, I think-- _shit._ I think I, uh...damn.”

“You think what, Dean?”

“I think I might be in love with you.”

Cas drops the remote. It falls to the floor with a clatter but neither of them pay attention. Dean is blushing scarlet now. 

“So I guess I, uh, actually wish I had _you_ , but--”

Cas finally manages to wrench his jaw open to speak. “You already do.” 

There’s another protracted moment of staring, and then Dean sits up and edges a little closer to Cas. “I guess that makes this our first date then, huh?” 

They don’t really end up watching a movie, because Dean is _distracting,_ but Cas doesn’t mind. 


	30. bouquet

_**I. Purple Hyacinth: sorrow** _

When Castiel first comes back to the mortal realm, to earth, to them, to _Dean_ , he retreats, spends his time alone. He goes on walks, burrows himself under his covers with a book. He gets a bike at the thrift store in Lebanon and rides it everywhere. 

He does not speak much, for he doesn’t quite know what to say. He never expected to come back, and to be alive again, and alive as a human, is almost too much. Castiel is feeling things more deeply now: pain, love, hope, joy, sorrow. 

There are people all around him--Eileen and Sam and Jack and Dean--but he doesn’t really _feel_ them there. Castiel is crouching, half-healed, underwater.

He lets himself sink.

_**II. Bluebell: constancy** _

Castiel is laying in his bed, in his cold, empty, impersonal room, staring at the ceiling, when the door suddenly swings open and Dean walks in holding his laptop in one hand and a plate with two sandwiches on it in the other.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says, “Budge over.”

There’s no preamble, no asking, but Castiel complies, sitting up and shifting over to give Dean space on the bed. Dean sits next to him, cross-legged, and balances the laptop on his knees. “Whaddya want to watch?” he asks. 

Castiel shrugs and then looks at the plate of sandwiches. A BLT, for Dean, presumably, and a PB&J.

Closer inspection reveals that the J is, in fact, jelly and not jam. 

Dean smiles at Castiel and chooses an episode of _Arrested Development_ and leans back into the headboard, his shoulder warm against Castiel’s.

Castiel eats his sandwich.

_**III. Chamomile: patience in adversity** _

After that, Dean starts to find things for Castiel to do constantly. He needs help folding laundry or doing the dishes at least once a day. Or he’s dragging Castiel into the kitchen to help him make lunch for everyone. Or he “needs” Castiel’s help in the garage with something on the Impala.

Dean takes Castiel to the grocery, to the hardware store, thrifting for “new” flannels, or just on a drive. He lets Castiel choose the music and leaves fruity-smelling body wash in the shower and one day Castiel finds a pair of fuzzy socks on his bedside table.

They still haven’t talked about it, what happened when Castiel died and what he had said to Dean, but Castiel is beginning to wonder if maybe they don’t need to. 

_**IV. Edelweiss: courage and devotion** _

Of all of Dean’s activities that he drags Castiel along to, his favorite (both Dean “his” and Castiel “his”) is movie night. Dean likes it because Castiel hasn’t seen all his favorite films a thousand times like Sam has. Castiel likes it because Dean makes popcorn and they always sit close, hands and fingers brushing as they share the bowl.

Tonight is no exception. Dean has put on _Young Guns_ starring Lou Diamond Phillips (and he won’t stop talking about how attractive he finds the actor, who he refers to as LDP), and Castiel can’t stop looking at Dean, at his freckles, his eyelashes, the curve of his jaw as he smiles, explaining a part of the plot to Castiel. 

“You’re staring,” Dean says suddenly, meeting Castiel’s eyes.

“Sorry,” Castiel replies. “I...didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“Uncomfortable. You think you made me uncomfortable?” The movie is still playing but forgotten now, Castiel’s world reduced to this conversation with Dean. 

“...Yes?”

“Oh my _god_.” Dean seizes Castiel by the front of his t-shirt and pulls him into a messy, bruising kiss. The popcorn bowl overturns between them, but Castiel can’t find it in himself to care. 

_**V. Daffodil: unequalled love** _

A few weeks later, on a Friday night, Castiel and Dean are reading in bed. They both stay in Dean’s room now (which Castiel supposes makes it _their_ room), and Castiel is half-tucked under the sheets, watching Dean’s reading glasses that Sam coerced him into getting slowly sliding down his nose.

Dean pushes them up and rolls over to look at Castiel, who runs his fingers through Dean’s hair and marvels at the smile it elicits. 

“Whaddya want to do tomorrow?” Dean asks. 

“Can we go to the farmer’s market?” 

“We’ll have to wake up at the ass-crack of dawn, Cas.”

“I know.” Castiel is smiling, because he knows Dean will say yes.

“Okay, fine,” Dean says, smiling back, like he can’t help it.

They fall sleep curled up together like commas, tight and warm, a pause and not an ending, but wake up with half the sheets kicked off and most of Dean’s limbs flung across Castiel’s body. Dean hauls himself out of bed to make them a pot of coffee before making the drive into Lebanon. 

Castiel loses himself in the round, ripe tomatoes at one tent and then the honey at another before he realizes Dean isn’t with him anymore. He looks around, scanning the crowd, before seeing Dean walking toward him, holding something behind his back.

“Where’ve you been?” Castiel asks, holding out a bag of tomatoes for Dean to inspect. Dean gives them a nod.

“Got something for you,” Dean says. 

It’s a bouquet of flowers. 

The colors are riotous, bright, happy, a cacophony of yellows and blues and whites and purples. Castiel can feel his happiness brimming over--he no longer regrets being able to feel too much. 

He kisses Dean right there, in the middle of the market, and then again in the car, and then again when they get back to the bunker, and then again and again and again. 

The flowers go in a vase on their bedside table. 


	31. weatherman

“We’ve got a warm front and a cold front meeting here--” the weatherman gestures at the screen, “So watch out for a drop in pressure, thunderstorms, and the potential for tornadoes. In the northeast part of the state--”

Dean turns off the TV with a click of the remote and turns to Cas. “If you want to do it today, it’s gotta be this morning.”

Cas sighs and burrows deeper into his blanket. They’re on opposite ends of the couch, feet touching, intimate despite the distance. He’s been hiding from this, not because he’s scared, because this was _his_ idea, but because of the finality. The fact that it means things really are over. 

And life is good, it’s amazing, it’s great--he and Dean bought a house in Tennessee and it’s what Dean calls “spitting distance” from where Sam and Eileen live now, and Jack comes to visit more than enough (but also never enough, Cas realizes), and they have a big porch that Cas can sit on and watch the storms roll in from, it feels like he and Dean are finally becoming _real people_ \--

But what are you supposed to do when your whole purpose has changed? When you’ve changed? 

For millennia, what made Cas _Cas_ was his angelic nature, his powers, his vastness. Now, he’s just as big as you can see him. Now he’s not really Castiel, not anymore, not ever. Now the feeble remainder of his grace lives in a squat mason jar, pint-sized, tucked into his and Dean’s sock drawer.

He has to let it go.

“Today,” Cas says, finally pulling himself up to a seated position. “We’ll do it today.”

The air is unseasonably warm, like the weatherman said, because of the fronts moving in, and Cas relishes being able to put on sandals instead of sneakers or boots. Dean doesn’t put a t-shirt on over his flannel, either. 

They walk to the back edge of their property, where it meets the muddy creek that divides them from their neighbors, hand in hand. Cas is holding the mason jar with his grace in his free hand. 

There’s a tiny maple sapling here that Cas found on a walk a month ago. He’s been watching it weather the changes in seasons and temperature, hoping it would survive the unexpected frost last week. 

It did. 

Now it’s going to grow big and strong.

Dean steps away and lets Cas work his magic, unscrewing the jar lid and pouring the thin, silver-blue stream of grace onto the sapling. He leans back on his heels as it begins to grow before their eyes, spiraling up until it could have been here fifty, sixty years. 

“It’s a beauty,” Dean says.

“Yes.” Cas presses his hand to the trunk, feels the warmth of the tree, and then turns away. 

As they walk back to their house, hand in hand once again, it begins to rain.


	32. our friends all knew you liked me

“And how’s Cas?”

“How’s--” Dean stumbled as Dr. Moseley fixed him with a smile. “He’s great. Hasn’t been able to make it to the last few meetings because of Classics Society.”

“Mmm.” Dr. Moseley’s smile grew. “You know, Dean, if I’m not mistaken that boy was coming to book club just for you.”

Dean let out a nervous laugh and then glanced at his phone. “Dr. Moseley, I gotta go, traffic’s gonna get real bad soon.”

“Alright. Drive safe. And remember what I said about Cas.” She winked at him and Dean turned and sped out of her office as fast as he could. 

Dean and Cas had been randomly assigned as roommates freshman year, and they were now halfway through their senior year of college and still living together. Dean couldn’t imagine it any other way--and he couldn’t imagine Cas thinking _that_ way about him, the way Dr. Moseley (his English professor and the faculty sponsor of KSU’s book club) was implying. 

Because Cas was just _like that._ If someone needed something, Cas was the first person to offer to help. He loved to tag along on adventures and offered great advice and was never upset to end up the designated driver when their friend group went to parties. 

Sure, Dean had been nursing a pretty intense crush on his best friend for about three years now, but he had already accepted that how Cas felt and how he himself felt were two different things. 

Or were they?

All afternoon, as Dean worked on his homework in the living room of their cramped apartment, Dr. Moseley’s insinuations crept through his mind, knocking him off his focus. Dean didn’t have _time_ to be distracted--balancing a mechanical engineering major, English minor, and his job at the auto shop was enough work as it was. 

Cas came home at his normal time, when he got off work at the campus bookstore, and he greeted Dean with his usual “Hello!” before heading to the kitchen and making a fuck-ton of noise.

Dean sighed and set down his textbook, hauling himself off the couch and into the kitchen. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Cooking.”

“Cas, you don’t cook.”

“Maybe I do.”

“Uh-huh.” Dean raised an eyebrow. “Get out of my way.” 

Dinner prep went the same as always, except Dean was hyper-aware of every time Cas brushed against him or Cas’ gaze lingered on him. He managed to keep it together until after they ate, cleaned up, and watched an episode of _Jersey Shore_ while making fun of all the people on it, but as soon as he could Dean escaped to his room and pulled out his phone to text their friend Charlie.

**_Dean, 7:45pm:_** _hey charles i got a question_   
**_Charlie, 7:47pm:_** _shoot_   
_**Dean, 7:50pm:**_ _does cas like me?_

Dean’s phone rang about three seconds after he sent the message, and he answered it to Charlie practically guffawing in his ear.

“Shut up,” Dean said emphatically. “Are you saying--”

“Yes, Dean, _yes_.” Charlie was still laughing. “Literally since you two met. You could text Jo or Benny or Ash right now and they would all tell you the same thing. Hell, you could ask Sam, and he doesn’t even _go_ to KSU.”

“I hate you,” Dean said.

“Don’t. Look, now you can shoot your shot. Cas _definitely_ likes you. You should hear him rhapsodize about your eyes--”

Dean hung up on her.

He didn’t sleep well, tossing and turning with the knowledge that Cas might _like_ him. Even with confirmation from Charlie, it still felt way too good to be true.

But maybe she was right. Maybe he should give it a go.

Dean sighed and dragged himself out of bed thirty minutes earlier than usual the next morning and set about making breakfast. Cas typically had a bowl of cereal, but he appreciated it when Dean made breakfast, and, well, what was it that his mom always said? _The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach?_

Cas shuffled blearily into the kitchen at their normal wake-up time and poured himself a cup of the coffee Dean had made, draining it before finally saying, “Good morning, Dean.” 

“Mornin’. I made breakfast.” Dean gestured at the table and hoped Cas’ hadn’t gotten cold. 

“Thanks.” Cas took his seat at their minuscule kitchen table, took a sip of his orange juice, and then took a look at his plate before promptly spitting it out.

Dean raised an eyebrow, anxiety swirling in his gut. 

“S-sorry,” Cas said, swallowing before looking up at Dean, eyes wide. “Did you mean for the--”

“Toast to be shaped like a heart? Yeah.” It sounded worse, and so goddamn cheesy, out loud. Dean would have spit out his orange juice, too.

“Charlie told me something might happen but I thought she was messing with me,” Cas said, his voice full of awe. He was still staring at Dean and it was almost too much.

“ _Charlie told you_ \--I’m gonna kill her,” Dean vowed.

“Please don’t.” Cas was smiling now, and it _was_ too much, so Dean did the only logical thing and crossed to the table before hauling Cas out of his chair. With Cas’ face mere inches from his and Cas’ pajama shirt balled up in his fist, Dean froze. Cas’ gaze was patient but searching. “I’m glad she told me,” Cas whispered, and that was that--Cas was closing the gap and they were kissing. 

Dean had daydreamed about this moment for a long time, but never quite like this. Objectively, it should have been an awful kiss--Cas had terrible morning breath that also tasted vaguely like orange juice, and it was a little off-center at first, and Dean was pushing Cas into the table in a way that couldn’t possibly be comfortable, but it was also _perfect_.

Dean eventually forced himself to come up for air. Cas was grinning at him, wide and gummy, his lips spit-slick from the kiss, and Dean couldn’t help but smile back.

“That was nice,” Cas said.

“Eat your damn breakfast,” Dean replied, but he could tell that he sounded too happy to be serious. 

(Cas’ breakfast _did_ end up getting cold, but Cas said it was more than fine.)


	33. accidental kiss

Dean and Cas have a kinda-sorta thing going on. 

They’re not _together,_ because Dean would know if they were, but they’re not _not_ together, which makes things weird. 

Dean’s at the local park with Cas and their friends Charlie and Jo, pretending to study but really just enjoying the spring weather. Cas’ shoulder is pressed against Dean’s, his body warm, and it’s just so easy and natural, until Cas looks at his watch and says he has to leave to go to work. 

Charlie fistbumps Cas goodbye, Jo flashes him a peace sign and asks if he’ll be at the party at their friend Ash’s house tomorrow night, and then Cas turns to Dean and _kisses him,_ on the _mouth_ , and then just...gets up and leaves. 

There’s a pregnant silence and then Charlie says, “I didn’t know you guys were a thing.”

“We’re not,” Dean replies, staring at her. He knows he’s blushing, because his face burns. “That’s--that’s the first time Cas has ever kissed me.”

Both Jo and Charlie’s eyebrows shoot up.

“I gotta go,” Dean says, scrambling up off of their picnic blanket. “I--yeah.” 

Luckily, Cas hasn’t gotten into his godforsaken Lincoln Continental yet, he’s just standing in front of the driver’s door, fumbling with the keys, and Dean seizes him by the shoulder and turns Cas to face him. 

“What’s wrong?” Cas asks, tilting his head sideways, and _fuck,_ how is Dean supposed to do this? 

“You kissed me.”

“Yes, I did.”

“You haven’t done that before,” Dean says. “Why?”

“I...” Now Cas is blushing. “I don’t know?”

“You don’t know why you kissed me.”

A pause, and then Cas looks down at his feet. “It just felt right.”

“Huh.” 

“I gotta go,” Cas says. “Or I’ll be late.”

“Right.” 

Dean watches Cas get in the car, but then he grabs the door before Cas can shut it and pulls Cas in by the front of his hoodie, kissing him before letting him go and shutting the door. He waves at Cas as he backs out of the parking spot and doesn’t return to Jo and Charlie until he can’t see the Continental anymore. 

\-------------

It’s later that night, around midnight, and Dean is nearly asleep when he hears his apartment’s doorbell ring. There’s only one person in his life who would a) come over this late and b) use the doorbell, and Dean shouldn’t be filled with trepidation, but he is. He trudges to the door in his pajamas, rubbing his eyes with the backs of his hands, before opening the door. Cas is, of course, standing on the other side of it.

“Come in,” Dean says, and then shuts the door behind Cas. 

Cas walks to his living room and flops on the couch. He says with zero preamble, “We need to talk.”

“I--Cas, it’s twelve in the fucking morning.” Dean sighs and sits down next to him. “This couldn’t wait?”

“No.”

“Great.” Dean settles himself in to hear the awful truth--that what happened at the park this afternoon really _was_ a mistake, that Cas regrets kissing him, didn’t like that Dean kissed him back. 

“I’d like to kiss you again,” Cas says, and _woah,_ that’s not what Dean expected. “But I don’t want to _just_ kiss you.”

“Jesus, Cas, take a guy on a date first.”

“That’s not what I--” Cas frowns at him. “Not that I'm opposed to that. But that’s not what I meant. I meant that I...I would like to go on a date with you. I’d like to date you.”

“Okay,” Dean says. “If it wasn’t obvious, I’m cool with that.”

“Oh.” Cas looks down at his hands. “For some reason I expected this to go very differently.” 

“Me too.” Dean stands up, pushing himself off the couch, and then grabs Cas’ hand and pulls him up, too. “But we can figure this all out in the morning. I’m tired.” Before Cas can protest, Dean is pulling him to his room and into his bed. Cas is as stiff as a board but eventually relaxes and rolls over to face Dean.

“Can I kiss you again right now?”

Dean doesn’t answer with words. 


	34. bed sharing

The first time is an accident. 

Dean’s had a shit week, so when Cas comes over to watch a movie, Dean pulls out more booze than normal. By the time one am rolls around, they’re both lying in Dean’s bed, with Cas’ feet propped up against the wall, drunker than a pair of skunks while they argue about seventies music. 

When Dean wakes up the next morning, it’s to the heavy weight of Cas halfway on top of him. There’s something stuck in his throat at the sight of his best friend, hair _everywhere,_ breathing against his collarbone. Dean decides to act like it’s not a big deal, because it’s _not,_ right? It’s Cas, and hanging out with Cas is easier than breathing. 

The second time is an invitation.

Cas comes over to watch the season premiere of _NCIS_ with Dean, and, as they’re wont to do, they stay up too late and maybe have one beer too many, and Cas isn’t safe to drive home. He tries to sleep on the couch, but Dean’s nerves are loosened by the alcohol and he offers Cas the other side of his bed, no sweat. 

This time when Dean wakes up, they’re spooning, with Cas tucked up against Dean, his nose on Dean’s neck. Even with the weight of the blankets, hot and thick, it’s kind of perfect, so Dean decides to act like it’s nothing again. After all, it’s still Cas.

The third time is an assumption, and it _is_ a big deal, but not because of Dean.

Their whole friend group does rotating game night, and this time it’s at Dean’s apartment. Dean’s starting to notice a theme--his friends come over, everyone gets drunk, it’s not safe to drive home, they spend the night. What’s different is that he and Cas have shared a bed now, and when their friend Charlie starts assigning everyone sleeping spaces, because she just does stuff like that, takes charge, she throws out that Cas and Dean can sleep in Dean’s bed.

And they _can,_ they have before, except now their whole friend group is watching, and Dean’s stomach clenches, but then everyone scatters, so Dean just grabs Cas by the hoodie sleeve and pulls him to his bedroom. 

Normally Cas is an animated chatterbox, even when he’s drunk or deliriously sleepy (especially then, and it’s maybe-kinda-sorta adorable), but tonight he’s dead silent and even turns away from Dean as he puts his pajamas on. He lays next to Dean in the bed, stiff as a board. 

Dean lasts about three and a half minutes before he rolls over to face Cas, reaching out a hand to touch Cas’ wrist. Cas startles.

“What’s wrong?” Dean asks.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.” Dean frowns, even though he knows Cas can barely see him in the dark. 

“I’m sorry.”

“You’re-- _what_? Dude, you haven’t done anything wrong.” Dean moves his fingers from touching Cas’ wrist to holding it loosely. 

“I’ve made you uncomfortable.”

“You have?” Dean cocks an eyebrow. 

“I haven’t?” Cas’ brow is furrowed, Dean can tell, despite the inky blackness of his room.

“I would tell you if you made me uncomfortable. Why would you think that?” “I dunno, maybe in front of our friends it looked like...something’s going on?”

“Do you want something to be going on?” Dean asks.

“Do _you_?” Cas counters. 

And, well, yeah. 

The answer to that is _yeah,_ Dean does. And has for a while. But Cas is one: his best friend and two: one of kind. There aren’t a ton of Castiel Miltons just lying around. Dean’s pretty sure Cas is the only person anything like himself: a bumblebee-obsessed librarian who holds his liquor better than anyone Dean’s met, who also likes to kickbox and has a cat named Merlin and can’t cook for shit. Who gets the ugliest and most threadbare sweaters at the thrift store because _no one else will buy them, Dean,_ who pretends to like Led Zeppelin for Dean’s benefit, who drives the most fuck-ugly gold vintage car on the planet, who never, ever, _ever_ brushes his hair, who likes tea over coffee, who--

“Dean?”

Dean’s half-drunk brain is still attempting to track the conversation, so he decides it’ll be a _genius_ idea to try and kiss Cas, except it’s _dark,_ and Dean misses by...a lot, hitting Cas’ jawline sideways. For some reason, that sends him into a fit of gut-splitting laughter, and--

“Shhhh, Dean, everyone else is trying to sleep!”

“S-sorry,” Dean says, fighting past his delirium, and he starts laughing again, and then _Cas is kissing him,_ properly, with a good amount of force. They break apart after a moment and Dean brings a hand up to Cas’ cheek. “Trying to shut me up?”

“Usually, yeah.”

“Asshole.”

“Uh-huh.” And then Cas is kissing him again, and that’s that. 

(The fourth time they share a bed, it’s routine.)


End file.
